


Night Song

by Crownofflow3rs



Category: Black Widow (Comics), Captain America - All Media Types, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, F/M, Not Canon Compliant, Red Room, Slow Romance, winterwidow - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-05-23
Updated: 2018-06-24
Packaged: 2019-05-10 10:12:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 8
Words: 22,798
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14735003
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Crownofflow3rs/pseuds/Crownofflow3rs
Summary: She's the best recruit in the Red Room. He's a mindless weapon without a past. Or are they? As they try to piece their memories back together, they'll realize some things just cannot be undone.





	1. Entrée

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As a really quick note, I would like you to know that this is not an adaptation. And though it will have both 616 and MCU elements, it's not by any means canon compliant. Everything has been manipulated to suit my convenience and yours, if you enjoy it. And I hope you do. Also, please excuse any vocabulary mistakes, English is not my native language.

_ENTRÉE / ɑ̃tʁe/ : An opening number in which the lead character or characters of a ballet make their initial appearance on stage._

 

“Shoulders down,” the headmistress calls, her fingers light on one girl’s arm.

It occurs to Natalia that nothing ever escapes Madam B’s gaze, even the tiniest of imperfections is a glaring flaw in her eyes. So, she pushes her shoulders down and makes her back straighter, even though the correction wasn’t meant for her specifically.

She glides through pliés and tendus with practiced ease. Arms moving through the corresponding positions as if automated. And though sweat is running down her temple and her toes feel like breaking inside their pointe shoes, she pushes herself a little harder. To make it softer, more graceful.

“Perfection,” the woman says to all of them, “is all you strive for.”

As if it were _easy,_ Natalia thinks. Nothing about dancing is easy, except the illusion of it. The audience may see you jump and land light as a feather, but on the inside your body is tense and everything hurts from your toes to your arms. The mark of a true dancer is to make it seem effortless, and there’s beauty in that too. But it is an illusion, like everything else.

Still, there are worse things to their training. And Natalia likes ballet, it comes to her more naturally than other disciplines.

Madam B’s eyes lock on her figure from across the room. And Natalia pretends not to notice as the headmistress approaches her place at the barre.

“Good,” She says and her chin tilts upwards imperceptibly. It’s the biggest compliment anyone will get from her.

A pleased feeling spreads on Natalia’s chest. The headmistress’ appreciation is what all of them want, all they’re allowed to want anyway.

When the barre is finished, the girls move to the centre and do combinations. The adagios are the hardest part, but Natalia’s been spending her free hours perfecting hers, so if she concentrates and performs each step accordingly, it’s a pleasure to watch the result. She even takes a little bow when she is done.

Madam B nods, perhaps that last thing makes her a show-off. But as long as the headmistress doesn’t disapprove, Natalia doesn’t care.

After they’re sent away to change, the headmistress signals her to come closer.

“Romanova,” the woman stands to the side as she approaches, “you did good today.”

Natalia waits, her hands squeezing her fingers behind her back. A compliment like that never comes alone, and she’s sure a critique will follow.

“You’ve gotten good.”

“I’ve been working,” she replies.

“So I’ve heard,” the headmistress says, “make sure you don’t neglect other parts of your training, will you? I’ve had no complains from your other instructors, but to excel on one matter only isn’t enough. Am I clear?”

“Yes Madam.”

“Good, you’re dismissed.”

Just like that, the silly little accomplished feeling she had is gone. Of course, being good at ballet won’t save her from the other things she’s supposed to do, but it was a nice distraction. She can’t help but to feel a bit gloomy on her way to the changing rooms.

Every girl has exactly fifteen minutes for a quick shower before lunch. After that there is close combat training, then dinner, then bedtime.

The Red Room works like a well-oiled machine. Everything has a time and a place, and the ones who don’t catch up are left behind. There are twenty-eight girls in the Black Widow Ops, but there’s no guarantee they’ll all make it to the end of their training.

Usually that thought alone is motivation enough to keep them grounded. No one questions their lifestyle because there isn’t anything else out there. They’re orphans, there’s no other place for them to be.

When Natalia leaves the room, she notices the hallway is empty. Her little chat, short as it was made her late. She’s about to hurry after the other girls when she hears steps coming fast from the opposite direction.

A group of men appear around the corner. They move quickly and drag, or usher something between them.

Four of the men are guards, the fifth is comrade Shostakov, a pilot, newly ordered KGB agent who has been running around the Red Room for the last few weeks doing who knows what. He winks at her as if they share some sort of secret. Natalia’s not self-conscious, but he has a way of making her feel as if her leotard and tights are transparent when he’s looking at her. And he has been looking her a bit too much these last days. She longs to tear her eyes from him but forces herself to meet his gaze out of spite.

Weakness can easily get you killed on these grounds.

There’s the smallest sound of ragged breathing coming from the men and it’s then that she notices the guards hadn’t been dragging something, but someone. A sixth man. Clad in black as he is, there’s no wonder she didn’t see him at first.

She can’t quite make out his face in their haste, but he seems to be shivering. A guard ushers him along before she can get a good look. The only thing she catches before they’re out sight is a mass of metal attached to the stranger’s left side.

Natalia stands in the hallway a couple seconds longer after the men are gone. There’s a spark of curiosity within her, but she’s late already. Still, she hesitates. Something about the encounter rattles her, but she couldn’t say what exactly.

In the end she turns into the changing rooms’ direction, but still throws one last glance back before she leaves.

 

* * *

 

Her shoulder hits the mat, but she rolls the way she’s been taught so the impact doesn’t affect her as much. She’s back on her feet in a second.

The other girl stares at her, eyes narrowed as Natalia charges again. Her muscles are tired from ballet, but she keeps going, the instructor is looking at them. Her goal is to disarm the other girl before she cuts her. And she probably would have done it already if her opponent was someone else.

After herself, Yelena is the best of the class. She’s ruthless, and very strong. She’s particularly good at close combat and if she lands a blow on you, you’ll probably feel it for days. Natalia knows she has. But the girl’s not as agile as she is.

However, what the girl lacks in gymnastics she makes up for with determination. Natalia refuses to keep count of their endless competition, but something tells her that Yelena doesn’t have that problem. She attacks her with a rage that is much too concentrated to be casual, she looks furious.

Who knows, maybe her little demonstration at ballet was really too much, Natalia thinks. Yet she can’t deny the satisfaction she feels when she thinks of her opponent’s face when she bowed.

It’s not wise to keep grudges in the Red Room, but honestly, Natalia doesn’t even remember how their enmity started. It just did.

Natalia makes for the blade, but Yelena dodges her, putting the weapon just of out reach before attacking her again. Her slash is fast, but Natalia’s faster when she moves out of the way. She practically dances backwards, just to spite her.

The girl makes an irritated sound and Natalia finally sees her chance. Yelena may be good, but she gets sloppy when frustrated or mad. Natalia lunges again, kicking the girl’s ankle in the process to make her lose her balance. While she’s distracted she lands another kick to her stomach and finally elbows her cheekbone. The blonde girl grunts in pain, her hand loosening its grip on the blade.

It would have been a clean win for her if Yelena hadn’t managed to cut her arm at the last second.

“A tie,” their instructor calls, and this time Yelena’s frustration matches Natalia’s.

_A tie._ She should be better than that. But her mind is distracted, and her body is tired. It’s appalling, but true.

The girls are dismissed soon after. And Natalia grudgingly deviates from the path of their sleeping quarters to make a quick trip to the medical wing. She’s learnt the bad way that wounds, even superficial ones must be tended anyway. Otherwise you risk infection or something worse.

She walks into the infirmary, going straight for the supply closet. There are no nurses to help, the girls learn to take care of themselves from a very early stage.

Natalia finds a couple bandages and sets them aside while she cleans the cut. It stings a bit, but she’s had worse. She’s mostly mad at herself for having been distracted than anything else. Still, when she wraps her arm she does so carefully, so that no noticeable scar will be left behind when she heals.

After she’s done, she takes a couple pain killers from a drawer and pours herself a cup of water from a nearby sink.

She’s so concentrated on her own thoughts that she doesn’t notice she has company until she raises her gaze. Only spotting him when she’s about to leave.

The man from the hallway. He’s laying on a stretcher, watching her through barely open lids.

Natalia pauses, frozen in place. It unnerves her a little how she didn’t notice his presence until now, but that’s not what keeps her there. There’s something vaguely familiar in the man’s face. She’s sure they’ve never met before, she would remember. But still.

He looks sick, pale. His hair is longer than what’s usual for the men she’s seen around the Red Room, and the beginnings of a beard dusts his jaw. As he blinks slowly, her eyes move to his left arm. The mass of metal she glimpsed in the hallway is actually his arm. It shines silver and seems to be made completely out of it, with plates shifting like muscles would as he moves.

When she looks at his face again, she finds it hard to read. For a moment his lips part as if he’s about to say something. Unconsciously, she tilts her head towards him, but he starts coughing, and whatever he might have said is lost. Without thinking, Natalia steps closer and offers him the water she poured for herself a minute ago.

“Here,” she says, but his hand closes around her wrist.

He attemps to get into a sitting position but only manages to lean on his elbow. The water rattles between them yet Natalia doesn’t drop it, just like she doesn’t try to pull her wrist from his grip. She has the impression it would only take a little pressure from him to break it. And she doesn’t feel like testing that theory.

“W-where am I?” his voice is rough when he speaks, like he hasn’t talked in a long time.

Natalia only stares at him for a minute, she doesn’t quite know what to tell him.

“The Red Room,” she replies finally.

“What?” he frowns, he looks alarmed. His grip closes around her wrist, causing her to wince. He looks down at it and lets go of her suddenly, “sorry.”

Natalia looks at him perplexed. It’s probably very stupid, what she’s about to say, but she asks anyway.

“Are you okay?”

His eyes land on hers once more, and the moment stretches. She doesn’t know what to make of him, she’s afraid of saying something that scares him further. In the end, when he doesn’t answer, she pushes the cup into his hand.

This time he takes it, and their fingers brush for the briefest second. There’s a kind of urgency in his expression, confusion or worry, but Natalia doesn’t have time to examine it further when she hears someone approaching.

She steps back from the stranger just before Madam B appears on the door, accompanied by a man wearing glasses. The headmistress’ eyes lock on Natalia, but she doesn’t acknowledge her besides giving her a brief nod to the door, signalling her to get out. She obeys but stops outside the door just before leaving. Out of her mistress’ field of vision she glances back to the stranger.

He’s still looking at her, his expression pleading.

That’s all she sees before the door is shut on her face.


	2. Bravura

_BRAVURA / braˈvuːra/ : A flashy, showy and elaborate style of dance that intends to show off the skill of a performer._

 

Something’s changed. Natalia can’t quite put her finger on it, but she notices.

She’s been staring at the ceiling for what feels like hours. Losing sleep is bad, especially with how much energy the training takes. But as much as she turns in her bed sleep just won’t come.

The room is silent but for the lowest puff of the other girls’ breathing. Natalia usually finds it calming, familiar after all these years of sharing this room with so many. But it doesn’t seem to have the same effect tonight and cannot keep her thoughts from racing this way and the other.

And that’s not all.

There’s a funny feeling on her chest and she feels skittish, her fingers tremble lightly in her curled hands. The other girls have commented on it as well, they’re all experiencing the same and it has been happening for a couple days now.

Natalia wonders if it’s a test, it doesn’t sound farfetched considering the other… things they’ve made them do.

She also wonders about the stranger.

Most of the guards are male, as are some instructors and operatives, like comrade Shostakov. But all of them are always presentable, they blend with the Red Room’s aesthetic, if you could call it that. The stranger on the other hand, he looked raw, distressed somehow. The image of him seems to be burned in her mind.

As much as Natalia distracts herself during the day, her thoughts always end up wandering towards him in the quiet moments.

She doesn’t need to wonder if his arrival has something to do with the strange symptoms all the girls feel. It’s too much of a coincidence not to be related. But guesses are all she has for now, it’s not like she can go and ask the instructors. The trembling is not enough to claim sickness, but it is to make her imprecise during training, and that unnerves her.

Finally, when she doesn’t think she can take her own restlessness anymore, the light outside the window brightens. Natalia produces a key from a pocket in her pyjamas and unlocks her wrist from where it’s handcuffed to the headboard.

At first, when she was a kid, the handcuffs were a method for keeping the girls in bed at night. Now it’s a habit, and each of them keep their own keys.

After breakfast, the twenty-eight head outside for a morning run. They keep a perfect formation as they’re lead around the courtyard.

To the uninformed eye, the Red Room looks like a small manor behind an iron gate, preceded only by a long road, which in winter gets almost completely covered by snow. Natalia can’t be exactly sure of it’s location, but she thinks it’s near Moscow, though she doesn’t remember ever being outside the compound. Life before training is vague in her mind, concentrating too hard on those memories makes her head hurt, so she avoids it as much as possible.

They’re about to finish when someone gasps loudly. Looking over her shoulder she notices a girl named Maria is breathing hard, her skin has a slightly green undertone. One instructor indicates her to stop and quickly leads her inside, while someone else signals the remaining girls to keep moving and finish their laps.

Once they’re back inside some of them glance in the medical wing’s way, which is where Maria was most likely taken to. Natalia thinks of her visit two days ago and the stranger invades her thoughts again.

“Worried about the girl?” it takes her a second to realize someone’s talking to her.

She turns and sees comrade Shostakov approaching them, he’s in training clothes, a towel slung over his shoulder and there’s sweat on his brow. The girls regard him with interest.

“Just curious.” Natalia replies. He looks pleased, it makes her wonder if he was expecting her to ignore him.

There isn’t an articulated rule about girls not communicating with the male residents of the compound, but she believes there must be one for them approaching the girls instead, since the guards never speak to them unless it’s necessary.

“It’s the water,” he explains visibly relaxed now that he has her attention, “it’s normal to feel sick when they boost the dose.”

Natalia blinks. By the way he phrased it, he obviously wants her to ask him to clarify. A bit of a smirk pulls at the corner of his mouth. It’s almost enough to make her want to drop it, but curiosity won’t let her.

“What’s in the water?”

“A chemical,” he says casually, “to make you strong, among other things. It’s always been there, but they must be trying to accelerate the process, hence the higher dose.”

Some girls share a look at that. Natalia can’t say she suspected it, but it makes sense.

Before she can ask another question a clock chimes somewhere near, and the girls hurry to class. Comrade Shostakov’s eyes linger on her for a second before he turns away, with the smirk still on his face.

Natalia follows the others inside, deciding not to think too much about what she just learned, or who she learned it from.

The training room and the ballet room are the same, usually the only difference is that the centre barre is pushed aside. But today, the mirrors reflect another scene altogether. Instead of their normal instructor, Madame B stands inside and next to her is the stranger from the infirmary.

At first Natalia only recognizes him for the metal arm. He is dressed in the same kind of training clothes as comrade Shostakov, but his hair is short, and his face is shaven. And his expression is… strangely muted; a drastic change from the last time Natalia saw him.

The rawness that were his features has disappeared, leaving in place an eerie calm, vacant, Natalia thinks. His gaze slides past her, almost like she isn’t there at all.

“Today we have a very special guest,” Madam B greets them, eyes glinting as she gestures to the stranger, “this man will replace your current close combat training tutor from now on.”

After that one of them raises her hand.

“Yes, Emilya?” The headmistress nods to the girl.

“What’s his name?” She asks, and Natalia hears a soft scoff coming from behind, she almost sighs, you don’t interrupt the headmistress to ask such a question. Even though she’s curious herself.

“Not of your concern.” Madam B replies with indifference and moves to the side instead while signalling to them, “Begin.”

The girls fall into position immediately, making a line along the mirrors while a random, unfortunate one steps forward.

As soon as the fight begins a few things click in place. A bit of a muffled collective gasp passes between the girls. The stranger is clearly stronger and faster than their previous instructor, by far. The girl who had just stepped forward a minute ago is on the floor almost instantly. A few would probably think it was the obvious outcome, her being a seventeen-year-old girl, besides a full-grown man. But the thing is, all of them have been training since they were six, as young as they may seem, no normal person could best them _that_ fast.

Natalia keeps watching as the girl gets up and goes to stand at the end of the line, while someone else takes her place. The next one lasts a couple seconds longer, having been better prepared, but ends up in the floor all the same.

Each encounter is too short for her to glean a fighting pattern from them. Natalia’s not scared, but she’s alarmed. The way the stranger moves so quickly, throwing each opponent down like they’re nothing is different from what she’s used to. At least Shostakov’s cryptic words make sense now, they need to be stronger if they’re going to beat _him._

The line moves fast, and the next girl is Yelena, making Natalia’s eyes zero on her, if not because she’s good then for their rivalry’s sake.

The blonde marches down decidedly, she attempts to kick the stranger and he avoids her, using his advantage and the strength of her own blow to push her aside. Still, she rolls on the floor and comes at him again. She’s fast, but Natalia sees her move before she does. She’s going to attempt a head scissor takedown. Natalia frowns, that move is new, and she hasn’t mastered it herself, _yet._

For a split second it almost looks like it’s going to work and Natalia’s ready to be baffled. But then when Yelena is just about to get atop him, the stranger grabs her, just grabs her and throws her off him like a rag doll. The girl hits the floor hard.

She gets up and moves down the line, yet the set of her shoulders is different and it’s obvious Yelena believes she did better than the other girls. In a way it’s true, Natalia thinks.

It’s stupid, and childish, but she wants to prove her wrong. It serves as motivation when her turn comes if nothing else.

The stranger waits for her to make the first move, like the others, but she takes her time. When she’s ready she lunges for him, though not as fast as she can be. He moves to block her blow, but she turns to his side. Still, he sees her and tries to kick her. That’s when she pushes herself to be fast, she blocks him and delivers a kick herself.

Her move basically scratches him. It does nothing, but in that little vulnerable second, he becomes determined. Natalia sees her error immediately, he throws a couple punches at her and it’s only her dancer’s agility and pure luck that she manages to avoid them.

He pursues her, while she only barely blocks his advances. She knows it’s not going to last and isn’t surprised when she lands painfully on the floor.

The others are looking at them, but she doesn’t even realize. He’s too strong, over what’s humanely possible. The wisest move would probably be to get up, go to the end of the line and pray she gets better next time.

She’s never considered herself particularly wise.

Natalia gets up, not without any effort, and faces him again. His vacant eyes seem to focus on her as she falls into position. It’s him that makes the first move this time.

She blocks his arm, pushing it aside with her forearm, but he comes at her again and the blow lands on her stomach. Natalia grits her teeth and forces herself not to hunch over. It’s spite that motivates her when she elbows him hard on the ribs.

She’s blocking another blow from him when she notices a rush in her blood, like adrenaline. Suddenly she’s not as tired and the ache on her stomach doesn’t bother her as much. She takes the opportunity to kick the back of his knee, putting all her strength on it and finally, miraculously, makes him fall.

He still grabs her at the last moment and they roll on the ground. She tries to subdue him with her newly found agility, but he pins her arm behind her back before she can do any damage.

“Enough,” Madam B steps forwards. The stranger lets go of her and both stand before the headmistress, “end of the line Natalia.”

She does as she told. She would never argue that she’s capable at all of reading the headmistress, but she doesn’t think she’s fooling herself by saying that behind the woman’s stern exterior she did look a bit pleased.

The other girls start trying harder after her display, flawed as it was. Natalia catches Yelena watching her, but the blonde’s face is so smoothly schooled into nothing that she can’t make her thoughts from it.

Natalia uses the time it takes for the line to shorten to catch her breath. Her body aches, but she’s not hurting the way she’s supposed to be. It’s like something has snapped into place inside her but it isn’t until she’s next inline that she realizes the funny feeling in her chest is gone, that her fingers aren’t trembling anymore.

When the stranger faces her again, she meets his eyes with a morbid kind of excitement. And this time they spar for longer. When he throws her off, she gets up again, and again until the end of the class. And though this time it’s her that ends in the infirmary afterwards, Natalia finds that she is kind of pleased with herself anyway.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kudos and comments are deeply appreciated, and I'd say (in a very non-manipulative way) they also encourage me to keep writing! So please let me know your thoughts.


	3. Danseur

_DANSEUR / dɑ̃sœʁ nɔbl/ : A male ballet dancer who excels in refined classical roles, often playing the prince or other royalty in a classical ballet._

 

Time seems to follow different rules inside the Red Room. It’s fluid. Days merge together like minutes. Months seem to go by like weeks.

She doesn’t know which day it is, or which year exactly. It’s not critical to their training, so nobody tells them. Months are a bit easier to tell, if only for the snow’s coming and going marking the seasons, but that’s all.

Sometimes it happens that she’s in the middle of the day’s first class, only to find that, at the next moment, she’s shooting dummies on the snow, just before supper. The rest of the day becomes a slippery memory. It feels as if time is moving by, while she watches the events play out like in a movie, or a video.

_It’s happening now_ , Natalia thinks as she watches their instructor. The woman stands primly to the side, her hands folded behind her back, a pair of pliers on her right. Next to her there’s a man on a chair. His face is covered with a black canvas bag, and he shudders every time the woman asks a question.

Natalia must admire his stubbornness, or his stupidity, as the woman calls it. He hasn’t uttered a single answer to her questions since the interrogation began. Of course, as the woman explained, he doesn’t know any. He’s just a regular traitor they caught among the lines, spared only to serve as demonstration. But still, he could have made up something, after all, his pain is very real.

The woman steps before him, she asks again.

Natalia wills her features into blankness, forcing her eyes to watch the man’s hands. They’re a mess of blood and skin, most of his nails have been pulled off already. And the skin of his forearms, or what remains of it has been burned. She keeps her calm mask in place. She’s good at it, she’s had practice like all the other girls. But she can’t help her stomach clenching at the sight, despite the years of training.

When he fails to respond once more their instructor steps back.

“No use,” the woman sighs. She takes her gun from her belt, takes the safety off, and points it to the man’s head. But at the last moment she seems to reconsider. She turns to the girls, offering the gun’s handle in their general direction.

“Any volunteers?”

Natalia knows she should take the chance, it’d look good in case the supervisors were watching. But she doubts a second too long. Someone raises her hand and she doesn’t need to see the blonde hair to know who it is.

“Belova,” the instructor nods in approval, handing Yelena the gun.

The girl doesn’t hesitate, she shoots the man in the head and the lesson is over.

After they’re dismissed no one comments on what they just saw. Not out of shock though, once upon a time there might have been a couple pale faces among them, but nowadays violence is something to be learned, rather than avoided. After all, it’s not the first lesson they’ve been given, and it will certainly not be the last.

On the hallway, someone crashes Natalia’s shoulder. She sighs, like before, she doesn’t need to look to know.

“Going soft?” Yelena asks, her eyes are narrowed, lips curled in a smug grin.

Natalia lifts a brow, “on the contrary,” she replies without stopping her walk, “I thought I’d be nice for you to have the chance,” she smiles benevolently, “we both know you need all the practice you can get.”

She can practically see the other girl’s vision turning red. Deep down Natalia knows she gets too much of a kick out of making her furious, and she should probably concentrate her efforts on other things. But it’s too easy, and unlike her training, it provides instant satisfaction.

“You think too much of yourself,” Yelena speaks through her teeth, and matches her step, “pretty fouettés won’t grant you early graduation.”

That last bit gets Natalia’s attention and she turns to the girl.

“So, you haven’t heard,” the blonde comments, surprised but obviously pleased, “there’s a rumour going around, they say the Madam will choose someone to go on a mission. That might mean instant promotion.”

Natalia masks her surprise, unwilling to let it show. The grudge returns to the blonde’s features at her expression.

“So, you may want to keep your practice chances for yourself next time,” Yelena looks at her with disdain and hurries on, ending their conversation.

Natalia frowns after her. She doesn’t quite know what to make of this new information. She’s always thought of graduation as an event in the future. Too far away for her to worry about now. But this changes things, she had supposed she still had a year, being seventeen. That might not be the case anymore.

Still, regardless of when it happens, she’ll either be a Black Widow or… she’ll be a Black Widow. The other alternative, failure, can’t be considered. She can’t fail, Department X has no use for girls who fail.

And she’s top of the class, there’s that. Yet despite her progress, she’s worried. During the last few weeks she has gotten better, much better. Her body seems to have completely adapted to the drug in the water, a reactive, Madam B called it when she explained it to them. But not everyone was so lucky, two girls were indefinitely transferred to the infirmary and hadn’t been seen since.

It’s a reminder of how precarious their position is.

Each girl represents a not inconsiderate amount of investment. Natalia doubts any investor would be willing to keep spending on a failed subject.

And that’s not all. The lessons have intensified. The Winter Soldier, which happens to be the stranger’s codename, has been overseeing their classes for the past week. From armed to bare handed, all combat training instruction has been transferred to him. And he’s formidable.

The only classes that don’t belong to him are the ones dealing with the psychological part of their training and ballet, though that would be an interesting sight, she thinks. The man isn’t particularly vicious on them, like some of their most enthusiastic instructors were, but he is more efficient. He doesn’t talk more than what’s completely necessary and he doesn’t touch them unless it’s required.

Natalia’s fine with that, she wants to be better and he could help with that. She could use it now. But if she was completely honest with herself she would have to admit her interest wasn’t one hundred percent professional. Something about him just doesn’t make sense.

Sometimes, when he’s quiet, which is most of the time, he gets a funny look on his face, like he could be there, in the room with them but his mind is somewhere else. For some reason, it stirs her curiosity. There’s something so… miserable about him. It makes her wonder where they found him.

But like most things, if it isn’t necessary for their training, they’ll probably never know. Most days it wouldn’t bother her so much. But Yelena’s talk unsettled her. She shouldn’t need to find out about whatever was going on through her, after all, it’s her future on the line too.

She marches into ballet class still in deep thought. The mistress isn’t there yet, so she takes a spot on the floor instead and starts sewing the ribbons into new pair of pointe shoes. Though her thoughts are a mess Natalia makes neat stiches along the silk side of the slippers.

She’ll need to smash the boxes of her shoes a couple times before she can wear them. That would be great to let out her frustration, but it won’t solve the knowledge issue. She needs information, but she can’t go asking around.

Then it occurs to her, it might be a way around it. Comrade Shostakov’s little chat a week ago could be read as an invitation. But she wonders what exactly he would ask in return for answering her questions. She almost considers it. But no. Having any kind of debt to him produces a feeling of instant discomfort in her. Being at the mercy of their handlers is one thing, willingly owing someone is another entirely. And Shostakov looks exactly like the kind of man who would ask for something in return.

But then how? She can’t just let it go.

The door to the room is open so she sees the Winter Soldier pass outside, like some sort of cosmic signal. He doesn’t look at the girls, his eyes are always looking forwards, like any good soldier’s. Natalia doesn’t know if it’s worth the try, he could just as easily ask something of her. And yet, suddenly the thought doesn’t repulse her as much, in fact, it doesn’t repulse her at all.

A bit of a grin spreads on her lips.

 

* * *

 

She skips supper that evening, and heads past the entrance hall instead. If someone asks she could say she’s going to the infirmary, though she isn’t sure how believable that would be. Ever since the drug settled into her system her healing has been so accelerated she can get a minor cut and be fine within ten to fifteen minutes, depending on how deep the wound is.

Natalia wasn’t completely sure where to find him. But an overheard conversation between two guards was more than enough to learn the basics, which saved her some trouble.

According to a stolen diagram, his quarters are on the other side of the compound, and thankfully there aren’t many cameras to avoid. Apparently whatever training he had underwent is enough to keep him from causing trouble. That part almost made her reconsider, nothing assured her he wouldn’t tell on her. Or deliver her to Madam B the moment she appeared on his door.

But she is stubborn. And as it would appear, a bit reckless too.

In the end she didn’t need stealth as much she was expecting to. But when she finally reached the right door, she halted. Knocking seemed stupidly polite, considering this was very against the rules.

Instead she picked his lock.

He wasn’t inside. That was good, she didn’t want to scare him when he could easily throw her across the room. Natalia closed the door behind her and stood there for a moment. The room was empty but for a chair and a bed, a blanket and a plastic cup.

It took only a couple strides to get close to the window. His room was tiny, but he didn’t have to share it with anyone and that struck her as lucky. She was tracing the window panes with her fingers when the door opened behind her.

He stands still as a statue, grey eyes on her and a frown on his brow.

“Get out,” he orders, stepping inside so the door is unblocked.

She stares at him, Natalia supposes she should have foreseen he would react that way.

“I just want to ask you something,” she explains, wondering if he’ll kick her out as she feared before. Not that she would blame him, but to give up now wouldn’t be like her so she stands her ground.

When Natalia doesn’t move he glares at her, but she turns it into a staring contest. She wonders if he remembers her from class, but his face doesn’t betray a thing.

“Leave,” he tells her, but his voice is unsure this time, as if he isn’t accustomed to give orders, or to have them ignored.

As he reaches for her arm, probably to drag her out, she asks whatever crosses her mind first, “where are you from, really?” It’s not the most interesting question she had planned, but it’ll have to do. His hand closes around her forearm. Not too roughly, but enough to prevent her from escaping. And he guides her to the door.

“You’re obviously not Russian,” she continues when he’s about to push her out, keeping her tone light, seemingly oblivious of the situation.

“What?” he frowns halting for a moment, which she uses to slip out of his grasp.

“Your Russian’s affected,” she hurries making the most of his hesitation, “and you limit to simple words when you speak. But your English on the other hand is flawless.”

He looks at her at that, lips barely parting as if he’s not sure about how to answer. Something like a smile starts to tug at the corners of her mouth.

He shakes his head and his confusion disappears, he’s aware of her attempt at distraction, “what are you doing here?” he asks, eyes narrowing.

She raises both hands, palms up to show him she means no harm. “I just need information, I was wondering if maybe you could help?”

He grimaces, though she’s ready to dodge him, he doesn’t try to grab her again. Instead he seems to consider her for a moment. After a minute of her doing her best not to look like a threat, he closes the door behind him. He grabs a small towel from a nearby chair and wipes his face with it.

“Well bad luck,” he tells her, sitting on the edge of the bed, “I don’t know anything.”

She lifts a brow at that, “surely more than me.”

He returns her look, “wouldn’t count on that,” there’s a wry expression on the set of his mouth.

Natalia can’t decide if he’s teasing her, he doesn’t look like it, but looks can deceive.

“That can’t be right,” she replies frowning herself. He looks at her as if daring her to try him, but there’s no humour in it. She asks whatever sounds more implausible, “not even your name?”

“No.” His face is serious, he’s not joking.

It’s not what she expected, not at all. In fact, it makes the entire exercise of coming here in vain. Natalia dwells on that for a few minutes, she considers leaving, except going back without at least one answer sounds too much like failure.

“What do they call you then?” She asks after a while, her previous determined position deflating until she is leaning against the wall.

“Nothing,” he shrugs, “soldier.”

He runs a hand through his hair and rubs his eyes. When he looks up at her she doesn’t turn her eyes away and they stare at each other for a while. What would strike her as odd under any other circumstances, doesn’t sound so farfetched when she considers where they are. And yet, isn’t taking his name _too much?_

“I’m Natalia,” she offers finally.

“Romanova,” he nods, a brief recognition spark lighting behind his eyes, “you’re good with a gun.”

She tilts her head to the side. It’s not really a compliment, but it’s the closest she ever gotten to getting one. Her eyes move from his face to his shoulder. He’s only wearing an undershirt and a mass of scars is visible where the metal meets his skin.

“You can ask. The response it’s the same though,” he tells her dryly when he catches her looking, “I don’t know.”

She adverts her gaze, scolded. “Sorry,” she apologizes, “I didn’t mean to stare.”

He continues to frown at her, but it doesn’t strike her as angry as it was, more like thoughtful. “It’s fine,” he says, rubbing his temple. His knuckles, which she hadn’t noticed before, are bloodied and bruised. He lowers his hand, examining it to the window’s light, looks down at the torn skin and winces.

“You should bandage them,” she says, stating the obvious.

He shrugs, “yeah,” he looks at his metal hand with a bit of contempt, “not great for delicate work.”

She deliberates for a couple seconds. “I can do it,” she offers, moving from her spot by the wall to his side, “you mind?” Natalia asks, nodding to a forgotten undershirt at the end of the bed.

He doesn’t reply, and she grabs it anyway. Laying it on her lap, she carefully tears a couple strips from it. Then she takes the water cup from the chair serving as a bedside table and uses it to wet what’s left of the material. But when she reaches for his hand he withdraws it.

Natalia lifts a brow. His frown seems to deepen, but he relaxes after a moment.

She makes her touch as gentle as possible as she cleans around the little cuts. She’s not worried about infection, he’s obviously been through some improvements, just like her, which means his immune system is most likely strong.

She can feel his eyes on her face as she works but she decides to ignore them for now. When his hand is clean, she wraps the strips around his hand, cautious that the bandage doesn’t restrict his movements, and tucks the knot away so it doesn’t bother him.

“Done,” she announces. Though she lets go of him, his hand stays mid-air between them. He’s still looking at her, and she stills under his gaze.

“Thank you.”

Out of the corner of her eye, she notices the light dimming behind the window. She should probably go. It’s late, and since whatever answers she expected to find don’t seem possible now, there’s no reason for her to linger. He nods absently, without her needing to say it and stands to open the door for her.

She’s not sure if she should say goodbye or something, and when she turns to him, he’s examining her work on his hand, “how did you get in?” He asks right before she steps outside.

She can’t help a half smile as she replies, “you need a better lock,” Natalia says, showing him a couple bent hairpins she used to pick it.

He doesn’t say anything at that, but for a second it almost looked like there was a spark of something in his eyes.


	4. Tombé

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Unfortunately, I have tons of work to do and won't be able to update in a couple days. Yes, life sucks.

_TOMBÉ / tɔ̃be/ : (literally 'fallen.') The action of falling, typically used as a lead-in movement to a traveling step_

 

She did a stupid thing.

In fact, she shad done two very stupid things if she counted sneaking into his room the day before. Which she wasn’t, because if she did, then she would have to admit to herself the real reason she was out of bed before dawn.

That tiny ember of a feeling that had settled somewhere inside her chest after they parted. To be honest, a part of her is deadly scared of what would happen if she pursued it. Would it grow? That couldn’t be good.

She wished she could ignore it, but it refuses to be overlooked.

In the past, when she had wondered about the time before she entered the Red Room it had never occurred to her to search for her medical records. Or perhaps it had, but she had abstained out of fear. Though it wasn’t a bad idea, after all, even if they hadn’t kept her personal information they must keep some recording of the treatments she had undergone since becoming a recruit.

Department X was nothing if not meticulous. Having that in mind, it was more than likely that they kept files for everyone, not just the girls. She was interested in one person in particular.

She couldn’t remember herself wanting to do something nice, just for the sake of it. Ever since she was small, her instructors had been clear about what her relationship with the other girls must be. On an ideal situation all of them would become agents, on a realistic one some would be left behind. It was a competition of sorts, and though they didn’t encourage spiteful rivalry, they weren’t there to play house either.

Natalia had played by those rules perfectly until then. She had absolutely no idea why he inspired the need to ignore them now. He just had this vulnerability. Sure, he was stronger and better skilled than pretty much anyone on these grounds. But when he wasn’t moving, he looked helpless, like a barely contained bundle of emotions. And she had seen it up close now. She just wanted to give him something of his own.

So, she got up at night and went to the medical wing. The compound seemed even more silent in the hours before sunrise, but luckily no guards seems to hear her. Natalia passed the infirmary and went into the offices further in. Locating the archive room wasn’t very hard but going through the files was.

There was a lot of information in general, and when she finally got to the recruits’ files her fingers halted on a folder labelled with her own name. She briefly doubted before pulling it out and then tried to smother her disappointment, when she found no more than what she already knew about her origins. _Perhaps is best not to know._

Before the discontent could settle, she continued. It was sometime before she could locate anything remotely related to him, but soon enough on a different section she found some old-looking files, and a folder listed to his code name. There was precious little information inside. Mostly referent to the surgery that had been performed to attach his arm, and descriptions of the expected result of a new procedure that he was to go through.

There was also a picture, that showed him with longer hair, as she had seen him the first time. _And a first name._ All other personal information had been crossed off and made impossible to read. It was less than what she had hoped to find, but more than she expected.

Natalia quickly memorized the contents and slipped the folder inside. But just as she was about to leave she heard steps outside the room. She jumped behind some furniture just as the handle turned.

“Is it absolutely necessary?” Natalia recognized the voice as the headmistress. And flinched internally when she turned on the light, even though she was out of sight.

“If you want the programming to work correctly,” replied a man whose voice she couldn’t identify, “he’s only effective for short periods of time.”

There was a silence, and Natalia could almost see Madam B lift a brow, “he’s been here a few weeks now and hasn’t shown any signs of insubordination,” she heard the woman say, “besides, he is of no use to me if we need to wipe his memory every week.”

Natalia frowned at that, she had a pretty good idea who they were discussing now. And despite the huge risk of getting caught, she leaned a bit closer.

“If I recall correctly you said your girls were ready, why delay it even further?” said the man, now evidently bitter, “he’s a soldier not a baby sitter.”

“Is that an excuse for unfortunate programming?” The headmistress mocked him, “honestly comrade, I need him to remember some basic rules. Is his allegiance to you really so weak that he needs to be wiped so often?”

The man didn’t reply for a while, but when he spoke again his voice sounded oddly calm, he was probably disguising irritation.

“I suppose we could see how long we can keep him conscious,” he said, “as long as there are no signs of disobedience.”

They discussed a few more things after that, all the while Natalia’s brain worked overtime processing what she heard. She remained hidden until they left the room and counted ten minutes before she made her exit.

It made perfect sense, putting it in perspective, that was why he had no memory. But that information failed to do anything but upset her. It was common knowledge that Department X’s subjects were trained both physically and psychologically, but to erase his memory… she wondered what kind of man he had been that they had gone through such drastic measures.

By the time she was free again, it was too late to go back to sleep, so she took a shower and got dressed.

She wanted to see him, though she wasn’t sure he would want to hear what she learned. Natalia debated on sneaking into his room again. She didn’t think he would kick her out this time, but she believed she had tested her luck enough for one day.

She wouldn’t see him until the next day anyway, at shooting practice. So she pushed the matter to the back of her mind, went about her routine and tried to think of something else meanwhile.

 

* * *

 

The idea came to her during ballet class, and she asked before she had the chance to cower. For a few seconds she was afraid her request would be suspicious, but the Madam only looked at her with the subtlest approval.

“I’ll arrange it,” she said and dismissed her in one gesture.

Surely her petition would show her commitment to the program, but that was only part of the motivation behind it. Being chosen for early graduation was on her mind, of course, it was all she had worked for, to get the approval of her superiors, earn a place beside them. To belong.

But there were other thoughts too.

After an hour of running in the snow that afternoon, Natalia went inside into the room they used for combat training and sat on the floor to stretch her muscles for a bit, her hair fell from the ponytail she kept it in and she was pushing it off her face when she heard him.

“This is a bad idea.”

She looks up at him, his jaw is set, and though his voice is stern, he doesn’t look particularly displeased. He’s wearing his usual training clothes like her, but the absence of anyone else in the room shines a different light over them.

“Hardly,” Natalia replies, “I had some free hours and thought they could be put to use,” she explains, “the headmistress seemed to agree.”

He arches his eyebrows at her, “is that all?”

A half smile spreads on her lips as she ties her hair up again, the tiniest bit of teasing colouring her voice “did you think there was something else?”

It only lasts a second, but she can swear a little mischievous beam crossed his gaze at her response, before it was swallowed by his usual blank look. At the change she lets the playfulness slip out of her voice and goes back to business.

“I want to be better,” she tells him, “can you teach me?”

He watches her in that silent way of his for a couple of breaths and frowns, seemingly turning over some thoughts inside his head. “I didn’t know I had a choice.”

Her lips become a thin line at that, the truth is that she hadn’t thought he would mind, “I can tell the Madam I would prefer a different tutor if it’s too uncomfortable.”

“Would that work?” He asks.

“No,” she shrugs gauging his reaction, “guess you’re stuck with me.”

He looks down and tries to disguise it as a grimace, but she can still see the beginnings of a smile pulling at his mouth. She only barely resists the urge to tease him about it, giving him enough time to school it back into stoicism.

“Let’s start then,” he says, all serious again, and falls in position.

This time when they spar it’s completely different from what she expected from class. His ruthless strength is still there, along with his fast reflexes, but instead of mindlessly attacking her, he moves like an invitation, leaving enough space for her to respond and try her best.

He doesn’t place the blows where he knows she expects them or condescend her in any way. And Natalia doesn’t hold back with him, she still tries to kick and subdue him. He remains out of her reach at first, but as soon as she gets a hold of it he must concentrate to keep the upper hand.

After a while he starts correcting her movements over the march. “You need to aim higher,” he tells her, “you’re used to fighting girls your size, but most opponents will be bigger.”

She nods, and jumps at him before he can react, “like this?” she asks landing a kick on his ribs, perhaps a bit more forcefully that she intended, though she doesn’t feel guilty in the least.

“Yes,” he winces, wrapping his hand around her leg, he tries to put her off balance, but her equilibrium is a marvel. She grins, twisting his arm and using her own body weight to push him down.

They get up and continue through a few more rounds. As time goes by she begins to get used to his fighting style, and it’s easier to match it, but he’s still stronger and more experienced. However, the agility she has gained over the last weeks makes up for her shortcuts. He still bests her most of the time. But she doesn’t think she’s imagining the glint of approval in his gaze when he watches her.

At last when the exercise is starting to take its toll on both of them, he pins her arm behind her back and she falls forwards, dragging him with her.

When they hit the matt, she rolls out of his reach and into a sitting position. He remains on his back for a moment, looking at her out of the corner of his eye. Usually she’s good at reading people, but he has a remarkably good poker face when he wants to. Natalia wraps her arms around her knees and rests her chin on top.

“Your name is James,” she says out of the sudden.

She hadn’t noticed he had dropped his guard until it was up again. His shoulders go taunt while his hands form fists, making the plates of his metal arm give silent ticks as they fall in place.

Seeing his reaction, she begins to feel slightly self-conscious about how she got the information on the first place. However, she reckons it’s best to just let it out quickly. “It was on your medical records. I sneaked into the med wing yesterday morning and looked at them.” When she watches him again, she notices his eyes set on her. His face is a riddle.

Natalia’s worried he’ll get the wrong idea, but he interrupts her before she can explain any further.

“You did what?” All signs of his previous distant demeanour are gone from him. He swiftly sits up, there is an intensity on his face that she hasn’t seen before.

She reels a bit at his expression, “look, I’m sorry I didn’t mean to pry-”

“Why did you do it? You could have been caught,” he doesn’t raise his voice much, but the alarm it blatant.

Natalia doesn’t know how to respond. Was it sentimentalism? Or some stupid need for rebellion? He’s right, she could have been caught, she was dangerously close in fact.

“I don’t know,” she replies after a while, when she fails to come up with a coherent answer.

His disapproval is patent, “well it was damn stupid.”

At that she bristles. Sure, she probably should have asked first, before invading his privacy. But she can’t help feeling a little bit insulted, _so much for trying to do something nice_ , “right, I don’t know what I was thinking.” She gets to her feet and halts for a second, lips pressed in a thin line. She’s both mad and ashamed and she doesn’t want him to realise it, “guess we’re done for today.”

She leaves quickly, worried she let him see too much. It’s so unsettling, this sensation of being exposed. She needs to get a better hold of her emotions, or to supress them altogether. She’s on her way to the changing rooms when she runs into a girl, or maybe the girl runs into her, she’s too distracted to tell.

“The headmistress is looking for you.”

Her blood runs cold.

A little voice inside her head laughs at the irony of it. Well, it’s nothing short of what she deserves, and it’s not like she can refuse.

She follows the girl across the hallway and up the stairs to the third floor. Halfway through she realizes where they’re going and if she wasn’t worried before, a shudder runs down her spine at the sight of it. The door looms in the distance. It’s one everyone knows but that’s she’s only crossed a couple times. Natalia eyes the girl by the corner of her eye. She doesn’t offer any explanations, just nods towards it.

The eponymous Red Room is the place where the psychological modifications are made to recruits. The first time she went in she was six, and newly arrived at the compound, she remembers Ivan standing behind her and him waiting outside when she came out. That was back when she was small, and he visited often.

The second time she was ten, and she among the other twenty-seven girls formed a line outside the door and waited for their turn. The days after that one became a blur, that was were time begun to feel liquid for her.

And now, she isn’t sure if what awaits is punishment or merely a scheduled visit. Her fingers curl into her hand, nails digging in her palm when she knocks.

“Come in.”

The headmistress is inside, a pleasant smile on her face. Natalia lets the door close behind her. Very soon her eyes land on the chair in the middle of the room. A doctor is arranging the last details while he checks his watch. It’s all very simple, there’s a cushioned chair, with straps on the arm rests, a monitor set in front of it, passing a silent movie made of various images intercalated in frames, and a pole with a hanging bag, filled with a clear liquid, connected to an IV line.

“We were going to wait for a few more weeks, but I believe you’re ready,” Madam B tells her, obvious approval in her eyes. It dawns on Natalia that she doesn’t know of her little archive room early visit, it’s a mild relief, but a relief none the less, “you’ve shown more than enough initiative already.”

“Sit,” the doctor tells her, and she obeys. He administers a couple eye drops to her and starts tying the straps around, securing her hands and feet and then her head, leaving her on a leaning position. Not too stiff, but not too relaxed either.

The headmistress places a hand on her shoulder while the doctor installs the IV on her arm, “I think we’re on a very good path.”


	5. Balancé

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm back! Finally I found some time to write and here we are. I'm sorry for the wait but I couldn't help it. Thank you for the lovely comments, they make my day!

  _BALANCÉ /balɑ̃se/ : A rocking sequence of three steps— _fondu_ ,  _relevé_ ,  _fondu_  (down, up, down)—executed in three counts_

 

Memory is a slippery thing. He should know, he's had his own rewritten a couple times. Though he's never been conscious long enough to be aware of it. Until now.

His new tutor status means they've kept him out of the ice for longer than usual. Way longer. The first week went along like a blur. He followed his orders and did what they told him. He barely even remembers where he slept during those days. Though he supposes it was in the same room he’s still occupying.

The weeks that came after that were filled with the buzzing, semi-awake feeling that marked his return to consciousness. Slowly, he found that he could remember little things. Like what he'd had for breakfast, or the way his boots sink in the snow at shooting practice. Or a flash of scarlet hair, occasionally. The blur of his days sharpened into what he could almost believe was a normal routine.

Yet despite his newly found clarity, his past remains uncharted territory. Whoever he used to be, he simply can’t remember. When he thinks of his past the only memories that come to him are unclear images of what he believes are previous missions. And the unquestioned certainty that this is nothing new, he’s been their weapon for a while now, he thinks. He can’t be sure, but his gut tells him so.

If nothing else, this lack of certainty is proof of who is really in control. Because what does it matter if he can remember having eaten when these people can erase it at will? The acute pain on his temple and the memory of the chair are also part of it.

Having this in mind, he’s decided he isn’t going to lie to himself. If no one else will be honest, the least he can do is to try to be true. To keep things as straight as possible inside his own head.

But it isn’t as easy as it sounds. Because if he’s being honest, he'd have to admit he thinks of her. More than he'd like, in fact.

And he knows what Natalia is. What all those girls are. Combat and explosives can't be all that they are trained on. Her pretty face and soothing voice aren’t coincidences. She had probably been chosen for those and trained on the rest. Even the way her eyes seem to light up from the inside can’t be a simple occurrence. He isn't that naive.

And it’s a permanent thorn on his side when she is around. Because if that is true, then he can't be sure of what is real and what isn’t.

Those little acts of kindness, like bandaging his hand, do they come from her? Or is there some ulterior motif? He knows which one is more likely. After all, kindness doesn't bloom in places like this, or for people like them.

And yet, he just can’t make up his mind about it. Natalia is probably a good liar; her impassive expression is enough proof. She could be a test, sent to him by her or his handlers, she probably is. But he desperately hopes he is wrong. He hadn't known just how contact-starved he had been until she touched him. But it’s little moments like that, when he forgets himself and where he is, that stand against his better instincts, that can get him in trouble.

Sure, she had recovered his name, but it hadn’t gone the way he had expected. In his restless nights he had imagined finding his name again would flare a light inside his head. But this word, _James,_ didn't trigger an epiphany, it sounded vaguely familiar instead, like the name of someone he had known. Though he supposes, not without humour, that whoever he used to be could be described as that as well.

Nonetheless, he was grateful, he could have thanked her, he was about to. But then the moment she told him how she got it, his suspicions rose up again. It was the way she mentioned it, so casually that had him either parts suspicious and worried.

Suspicious because she made it sound so easy, it could be a trap, a test, she could have been ordered to tell him. And worried because she could have been caught and they would have punished her. And why, in the world, would she risk something like that just to give him a thing so small as a name?

He doesn't know what to think, and in his haste, he pushed her away. He is definitely a fool for regretting it.

Whatever her motivations are, Natalia is trouble, and he should stay away. No one is worth the kind of punishment these people could force on you.

So, he made up his mind, and it lasted approximately twelve hours.

After she left him on the training room he took a shower and went to bed without supper. If there was one good thing about this Red Room was the showers. _Hot water_ , he’s under the impression his previous housing, wherever that had been, didn't take his personal hygiene into consideration. Among the scattered bits of memories that plague his mind he remembers a hose, and a splash of cold water hitting his back. It’s one of the things he wishes never came back.

However, this compound is always clean, it’s meticulous, to say the least. Not that he’s complaining. Though having his hair cut to keep up the appearances wasn’t fun in the least. The funny thing about that -and he likes to think about it as funny because the alternative is much worse -is that he didn’t realize they’d done it until one day he just looked in the mirror and noticed. That’s how out of it he was on those first days.

When he wakes up the next morning, he’s almost pleased to notice he’s starving. Having skipped dinner the night before, his stomach’s rumbling. As uncomfortable and stupid as it is, the fact that he notices such a little thing is a relief, even among such circumstances.

He showers again, just because he can, and early enough so there’s no one around the changing rooms while he does it. After that he goes about his routine.

His resolution went unfazed during the morning run he shared with the other male operatives. But it slowly crumbled as he walked into the combat class he was supposed to teach and realized she wasn’t there. For a second, he wishes her hair wasn’t so visible among the grey uniforms. But something tells him he would have noticed anyway. _It’s better this way,_ he thinks, and he almost believes it.

If nothing else, at least he has a very strong will, and so for the most part he is able to shut down his thoughts when they wander too close to her absence. But as the session ends and the girls leave, his concentration wavers. Somehow, he doesn’t think anyone is allowed a day off, perhaps she is off on another private class with someone else. He grimaces, he didn’t believe Natalia meant it when she said she would ask for a different instructor.

_It’s better this way,_ he repeats inside his head.

 

* * *

 

Fighting men is easier training the girls. For some reason, with the girls he feels the need to be careful. It’s stupid, they won’t break, they’re not dolls, and certainly not delicate. But something in him recoils at the thought. So, during those times he need all the concentration he can get not to hold himself back, he’s pretty sure they would kick his ass if he let his guard down.

The men on the other hand; he doesn’t feel any guilt at beating them unconscious. It’s clear from the beginning that they don’t have anything on him. They’re ordinary, lacking whatever concoction the handlers used to make him the beast he is.

He’s certain that these sessions are not like the ones he has with the girls. No one gives him any indications besides the word _fight_. And there’s always an audience. A few men taking notes and watching around, and among them, his own handler. He doesn’t know the name of the man, but his face is a familiar shadow in his jumbled head.

The other men call him General Karpov. The word sends a shudder down his spine, and some pain resurfaces on his left temple. Though the quick words they share with him are not enough to make him lose his concentration, he pours his focus on the fight. And allows his thoughts to become silent for a while.

The calm sticks to him after the encounter and dims the displeased expression on his handler’s face. The man grasps one of the operatives by the arm and seems to reprimand him. Not that he notices any of it, because as soon as he’s dismissed, he walks out of the room. And he catches a flash of red at the end of the hallway.

He’s walking towards her before he even knows it. He half expects her to turn around and lift a brow at him, but she doesn’t. She walks slowly further down, and he doesn’t dare reach for her, or do anything that would give away any kind of connection that’s more than purely professional. He’s still suspicious.

Up close he notices that her usual flawless balance is off, that her shoulders have sunk. He matches her step and looks down at her by the corner of his eye. She blinks slowly, like she’s just gotten out of bed, and her face is pale, devoid of any kind of colour.

She looks sick. Against any kind of common sense that he might have left, he reaches for her wrist.

“Natalia,” he calls, throwing a worried gaze down the hallway, making sure they’re alone.

Her reaction is delayed, like slow motion, as she tilts her head towards him, “yes?”

He frowns, still mindful of his reservations towards her.

“Are you alright?”

She blinks, looking up at him. “James?” Watching her he notices her pupils are big, not enough to be noticeable from far, but looking up close it’s obvious. He gazes down at her arm and notices a little prick on the inside of it, a fading needle mark.

“Shit,” he hears himself say. They’re too far away from his room or any other place where they might have any kind of privacy, but he can’t leave her there. He looks up and his eyes lock on a door that he supposes could be a bathroom. Or it could be something else, he’s not sure.

He lets go of her for a second and pushes it open gently. It’s a changing room, and it’s deserted. He gestures for her to follow him inside, too wary of any cameras watching for him to lead her in. But she’s smart, even in her dazed state, and gets his idea.

Natalia closes the door behind herself. The thought of blocking it crosses his mind but he abstains, it would only look worse if someone were to pry it open. She doesn’t seem to worry about it though. She closes her eyes and slowly leans her back against the door. Her arms make a weak attempt at crossing themselves across her chest and end up curled around her instead.

“I–“ her eyes are still closed as she attempts to speak, “um…”

“What happened?” he speaks quietly. There’s only one thought running through his mind now, did they punish her? It’s possible, but it also could have been a normal procedure, and though that would mean he had nothing to do with it, that it wasn’t his fault, he doesn’t find it especially comforting. At all.

Natalia opens her eyes. Though she’s standing right before him, her gaze is focused on something far away, “I’m not sure,” it’s barely a whisper, but it carries a bit of emotion he doesn’t think he’s heard from her before. It’s fear. “I can’t remember.”

Her forehead wrinkles as she frowns, and her hands dig on her sides. He takes a tentative step towards her. She swallows, forcefully closing her eyes.

“Hey,” he raises his hands, palms up to meet her, but her eyes remain closed. He wonders if he came too close too fast, yet before he can step back, she moves further into herself.

Her eyes open, but they don’t focus on anything. Her right hand shoots down, palming the door behind her frantically, like she’s searching for something under her touch. Natalia’s breath starts coming fast, shoulders moving up as she makes herself smaller against the door. Then she brings her hands back against her chest, tucking both under her chin so fast it’s almost violent.

Comprehension flashes through his head.

She sinks to the floor and he follows her, though he’s careful not to touch her right away. “Hey, hey look, Natalia.”

At the mention of her name he finally gets her attention. She swallows again, but the clutching of her hands continues. “I just- I can’t,” she mumbles growing visibly distressed, “I can’t remember,” she tries to explain.

He thinks he knows what that is like. Slowly, he reaches for her hand and gently detangles it from the other one, “it’s okay, it’ll go away,” he tells her, unfolding her palm and placing it against the floor.

Her eyes lock on his face but the fear remains.

“Just do this for me,” he asks, willing his voice as gentle as he can make it, “name things you can see, here, in this room,” she looks at him like he’s crazy, but he only nods, “please.”

Doubtfully, she looks past him, and he nods again, encouraging her. Natalia seems to keep one eye on him, trying to discern if he’s making fun of her. “The showers,” she says, tentatively.

“Good,” he replies, “keep going.”

“The bench,” she says a bit surer, “the mirror, the- the ceiling.”

She keeps naming things and he nods with each word. After a while tension seems to leak out of her form gradually. His worry leaves him as well, dissolved along with hers. When she’s named a dozen things and her shoulders sag against the door, he carefully removes his hand from hers.

“The floor,” she says finally, fingers relaxing against the tile he had pressed them to, feeling the smooth texture of it.

They remain silent for a couple minutes, and he uses them to put a little distance between them, just a couple inches that keep him from totally abandoning his common sense. She doesn’t give any indication that she notices, but he thinks she might be more perceptive than he realizes.

“Better?” He asks.

She nods, “thank you,” her eyes have regained their usual intensity and now that it has turned to him, he feels a bit self-conscious.

He shrugs, which is probably impolite, but her response reminds him that he never thanked her for his name. And he wonders again if whatever they did to mess with her was a punishment for that. He doesn’t want to ask, for fear of her growing distressed again. And because if it was, then he doesn’t want to find out.

She tucks her hair behind her ear and he notices it’s loose of its usual ponytail, it looks so smooth. “I wanted to do something nice,” she tells him, a wry expression on her lips, he thinks it could be a small smile, or maybe he only wants it to be.

“What?” He asks.

“You asked me why I went through the trouble to find it, your name” Natalia explains shrugging absently, “I wanted to do something nice,” she’s watching him again, but this time he doesn’t recoil as much.

He doesn’t think she’s trying to guilt him about it. She looks exhausted, her skin is still pale, and maybe, if she was a normal person, there would be dark circles under her eyes. She doesn’t look exactly vulnerable, and she’s not scared anymore, but in the aftermath of her distress, she seems so human that he doesn’t think she could be deceiving him anymore.


	6. Glissade

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have a feeling you'll like this.

_GLISSADE / ɡlisad/ : (literally 'glide') A traveling step starting in fifth position from  _demi-plié_._

 

Outside the cold is intense enough to sip through her skin and reach her bones. It bites her face and makes James’ breath rise like steam around his mouth as he explains the mechanics to her.

She's heard it before, a million times since she first learnt how to shoot. But his easy concentration as he disassembles the riffle is fun to watch. There's a bit of a spark in his eyes, it's confidence, she notes. He handles the sniper riffle like he's done it a hundred times, his hands move over it with terrible familiarity. It doesn’t look like a gun while he holds it, but like an extension of him.

She’s only ever seen him shoot a handgun a couple times in class. Most of the time, he strolls among the girls, correcting their work, when necessary. He doesn’t demonstrate unless he’s explicitly told to. At first, she had been under the impression that he didn’t like teaching. With the way he limited contact with anyone at all possible times. But she’s changed her mind. It’s not that he doesn’t like to teach, it’s that he doesn’t like attention.

She’s spent most of her training hoping for the opposite. Being noticed means that you’re good, and she’s always wanted to please her superiors. But a higher ranking also means more responsibility, doing some nasty things. She tries not to judge the work they do. An order is an order and if your country needs you to do it, you can’t disappoint.

But the kind of skill James shows and the codename they gave him hints at a larger picture. Perhaps he’s been in this longer than she imagined. Can it become too long? She’s never had a real assignment, not yet. Perhaps after a while the toll becomes too much, and you don’t want to be noticed anymore.

She’s always been eager to ascend, but now, she’s not so sure.

She can’t think of that though, so her attention focuses on him again. She likes these lessons they spend in private. And the confidence in his voice as he shows her how to dismantle a gun. How he frowns in concentration, not distress. She’s never thought about it this way before, but it’s… attractive.

So, she kneels there on the snow beside him and let him do his talking. Allowing herself to smile only with her eyes, and not her lips, in fear he'll think she's teasing him.

“Assemble it again,” he tells her, gesturing to the separated parts of the riffle between them. He placed them on top of a piece of cloth, so they don’t touch the ground directly. Though his voice is serious, he’s not ordering her around. It’s a change she welcomes.

Natalia reaches for the parts. And makes quick work of putting them together again.

Things are different between them now, it's like an unspoken agreement has taken place since her breakdown a couple days back. He was… surprisingly gentle with her. And the memory of it dampens the humiliation she feels when she thinks of how she crumbled.

She still doesn't remember exactly what happened, only bits and pieces. Though she has a general idea, courtesy of the headache that still lingers.

The procedure was standard, not a punishment she assured James after he helped her up the floor. _I’ve gone through others before, it’s nothing new._ She made sure there wasn’t any doubt on her face at the time, even though anxiety was crawling inside her stomach. He had guilt written on his face when he asked, she wanted him to know it wasn’t his fault.

But on the inside, Natalia feels as if someone were squeezing her throat. Whatever they did to her, none of the other girls have experienced yet. And she’s scared of how badly she handled the aftermath of it.

It feels as if they've taken something from her, but she doesn't know what it is. It's maddening, and as always, there's nothing she can do about it. She needs to trust the handlers know better. That it’s all for the greater good, however awful it might feel.

But in all her years of training she’s never felt scared, at any rate not the way she does now.

At least James doesn't look at her in that wary way he used to. He seems to have decided she's not some vixen come to haunt him. Natalia supposes they're friends now. The thought almost makes her laugh. She's never had a friend before, only brothers and sisters. What are they supposed to do? Braid each other’s hair like in those awful American movies they watch in class?

Yet, she likes the way he moves around her when they spar, like he wants to be polite, but fears offending her abilities by making it easier. It makes her wonder what kind of man he is, or used to be, before he started working for Department X. 

The time for revelries is over when she finishes assembling the riffle. She realizes she was too fast when he hands her the scope with a rueful expression, “you've done it before,” he says, he looks a bit disappointed, “you should have said.”

She smiles apologetically, and attaches the scope, “but you looked like you were having fun, showing off,” she teases him, hoping he won’t take it too seriously.

That mischievous glint she’s only ever glimpsed before shines on his face for a moment, “didn’t hear you complaining.”

Her eyes turn back to his, looking at him with incredulity, “was that a joke?” she asks, a smile pulling at the corners of her lips, “I didn’t know you had a sense of humour.”

He shrugs briefly, “I didn’t either,” he admits seriously.

 _Oh,_ Natalia hasn’t mentioned the conversation she overheard in the archive room yet. She’s not sure how to bring it up without seeming like she’s prying. She wonders if he knows what they’re doing to him, how much he remembers of it.

“Guess it’s coming back,” he comments casually, filling the silence.

“I hope it stays,” she replies genuinely.

His eyes meet hers and he nods. He looks more lively than usual, the invisible weight he carries around the hallways is absent from him today. Perhaps it’s the outdoors, and the fact that they’re not being constantly watched out here. Even if it’s cold as hell.

He turns his eyes to the distance, watching the trees that surround the Red Room’s grounds, “I remembered something this morning,” he tells her, his voice is so low, she almost thinks he’s talking to himself at first, “there’s this um… apartment building, and a man,” he says, wondering at the words to describe it.

Natalia stays silent.

“His face is…” he continues, disappointment colouring his tone, “blurry.”

She tilts her head, looking for his eyes, “do you know him?” she asks gently.

His gaze flickers back to her, an unreadable look on it. “Yes, no,” he replies, “I’m not sure.” The admission frustrates him, it’s clear on his face.

“This is great James,” she assures him, an encouraging smile on her lips, “I’m sure it’ll come back.”

He doesn’t smile back, but his eyes soften. “Would that be a good thing?” he wonders. Her smile falls, she knows what he means, their superiors would hardly approve. Crude reality. At the change in her expression he seems to regret his words.

“I’d prefer to know,” she shrugs, resigned, “the wondering is crueller.”

This time it’s he who watches her. She returns the look, pondering. Natalia sighs, _what the hell?_ She thinks and spills her thoughts.

“I don’t remember much from before. Ivan says I was in an accident,” she explains, realizing she has given him not context and hurries to explain, “I mean before the Red Room. Ivan’s my handler,” the word _handler_ comes out dead on her tongue, but that’s what he is, isn’t it? “It comes back in flashes really, nothing solid,” she shrugs, a little forcefully.

James doesn’t utter a word.

She continues, “there’s fire, and the side of a road, and tracks on the ground,” she describes vaguely, “Ivan rescued me, and brought me here.”

She’s aware of the fondness in her voice, whatever he is, Ivan _did_ save her. He must have seen potential in her. Perhaps he doesn’t love her, that much is forbidden for him as well, but he cares. She must live up to his expectations, it’s the only way to repay him.

“He brought you here,” James repeats quietly. She thinks she sees a hint of disapproval in his face and a spark of reluctance appears inside her chest. But he doesn’t add anything.

She looks down at the assembled riffle on her hands. She doesn’t want to regret telling him what she did, so she changes the subject.

“How good are you with this?” she asks, lifting the riffle a couple inches.

He sees right through her attempt, but after a moment of hesitation he decides to play along.

“Pretty good,” he replies shrugging and she knows he isn’t being smug, it’s a fact. It brings back the smile to her lips.

He glances at her, looking a bit puzzled. Perhaps she was too sudden to steer away the conversation. But if it occurred to him, he doesn’t mention it. Following her lead instead, he scratches the back of his neck and gestures to the riffle.

“Wanna give it a try?” he asks, “I should be teaching you something after all.”

Natalia nods. She rests the riffle on its stand and positions herself on the ground, laying on her stomach. He watches as she makes sure the weapon is correctly placed against her shoulder before taking aim, “feedback?”

His gaze glints with amusement, “let’s see how you do first.”

She checks her aim and pulls the trigger. The target is so far away that it only looks like a speckle in the distance, even tough she has a pretty good eyesight. So, she uses the scope to check her shot. It’s not bad, but she missed the heart. It’s not as clean as she would like.

Natalia moves aside to let him see. He examines the view for a moment and turns back to her, “your breathing’s wrong,” he tells her, “but that’s all, it would have been perfect otherwise.”

She moves in to try again, and he makes space for her but doesn’t shift back. He waits for her to position again and places his right arm around her. It’s only a bit warm through his uniform and her clothes but she feels it anyway.

She’s tempted to say something, but it dies on her throat when he speaks. And she notices he’s much closer than she expected, hearing his voice near her ear.

“Breath in,” he tells her, and she does. Relaxing under his arm.

He trusts her to find the target and lock it in place, she gives a small nod when she has.

“Let the air out slowly,” he says and waits for her to do it, “shoot,” he says when the air has completely left her lungs and her body lies completely still.

The bullet flies true and hits the target on the forehead. She can see it through the scope. A pleased smile spreads on her lips at the sight.

“Good,” he praises.

Natalia turns to him and again, his closeness catches her off guard. She half expects him to reel and put a couple inches between them like the last time they were this close. But he doesn’t. She feels his breath on her face and his arm on her shoulders more acutely in that moment.

He swallows and his lips part. She leans into him, his fingers squeeze the fabric of her jacket, pulling her closer just slightly.

But before anything else happens, she sees movement in the distance.

Looking back at the compound, Natalia sees the guards shifting their positions. Time flies when you’re having fun, they say. It doesn’t sound so funny now.

“We should go back,” she tells James in a whisper.

A second goes by, and his fingers slowly let go of her. He closes his eyes and nods, moving away. There’s a funny feeling in her stomach as she stands.

They grab their things and leave the spot in only a couple minutes. She thinks she sees him looking at her by the corner of his eye but doesn’t mention it. She only thinks the cold feels a little less intense right now. And despite the frigid air, she can see there’s the tiniest hint of colour on his face.

 

* * *

 

Coming back inside is like putting on a mask. What little honesty she had allowed herself to show to him vanishes from her face when they part at the entrance hall.

Inside the compound is cold, she could almost say colder than outside, though that's impossible. But at least out there is the sun, even though it's hidden behind the clouds. Inside the air feels trapped and sunlight has a hard time coming in.

She doesn't think she's ever noticed the change until now.

But despite the gloomy surroundings, there's a lingering warmth encased in her chest.

It's juvenile, probably. Certainly not the kind of thing someone like her should be feeling. She's not free to do whatever she likes. Her life belongs to Department X, she owes it to them.

And yet, Natalia's never felt more alive than she does now. Even with the fear that plagues her at night. It’s like her nerves are awake, after being dormant for so long.

And she can't smile, not while they're watching. But she thinks of him, and how his breath felt, and his arm around her shoulders. And she thinks she has something to look forward to at last. Something that doesn't take a toll from her.

Though her face doesn't betray a thing, she's still warm as she ties her pointe shoes waiting for the class to begin.

The Madam is not in a good mood. The irritated set of her mouth as she watches them on the barre is enough prove. Her cane starts hitting the floor to mark the tempo of the music and the girl in front of Natalia winces almost imperceptibly.

“Faster,” the headmistress orders, “watch the arms,” She only raises her voice slightly, but it’s enough.

Natalia compensates by being pushing herself harder, until the pain in her legs dulls everything else. And hoping the woman's eyes don't zero on her.

“Make those jetés faster,” the headmistress tells a girl on the barre by the window.

Natalia glances to the side during the pliés and sees Yelena working overtime to be fast and keep her movements graceful. She's so concentrated that she doesn't even scowl at her when their eyes lock.

The headmistress’ lips press in disgust, “battement en croix,” she instructs, changing the combination.

Years of training keep the girls from mudding their steps as they change their movements to follow the new exercise. But one of them is a second slower than the rest. Natalia can't see her face, but she knows it's Emilya by the set of her shoulders. She holds her breath when Madam B comes to stand before her. She can bet she's not the only one.

“What was that?” the woman asks, while the girl tries to keep up under her attention.

She's not a bad dancer, she was just unlucky enough to mess on a bad day. But having the headmistress scrutinizing her every move clearly takes its toll on her confidence. When she second guesses again, the other girls tear their eyes away.

Natalia wouldn't wish this particular curse on anyone, not even Yelena.

As they reach the end of the combination, everyone stands still, frozen in the finishing pose, with their arms gently curved in first position and their feet crossed on fifth.

“Again, from the fouettés,” Madam B tells Emilya. And she obeys.

The girl's lines are good, and she moves her arms in all the right positions at the right times. But the headmistress’ eyes only pick up the flaws, “faster” she orders, and the girl does what she can to please her.

There's no music anymore. The man on the piano has stopped playing at the headmistress’ command. And now it's only her cane marking the tempo.

“Faster! Hold yourself together,” Madam B continues to push the girl, “why are you so lazy? Get on your leg!”

Natalia sees her feet wobble before it happens, Emilya’s face is pained. Even their enhancements can't help your nails from breaking inside the shoes if you put too much pressure on them. The girl only lets out a gasp when she loses her balance. The sound of her hitting the ground resonates in the room.

“Pathetic,” Madam B looks down at her with contempt.

None of the girls step forward to help her stand up. Not for lack of pity, but because that would mean putting themselves on the spotlight as well.

“I have no use for weakness,” the headmistress says, looking at all of them, “you must do what I ask, when I say it. No complaints,” she adds, looking at girl, “or failure.”

Natalia looks at a point on the floor, her eyes unfocused, hoping she’ll become invisible. She’s sure all the others are thinking the same. Something must have happened before class, however strict the Madam is, this anger isn’t normal.

“Perhaps if you won't be competent dancers you will at least obey me as agents.”

The headmistress looks back, and gestures for one of the guards to step forward. Natalia can feel the other girls’ tension alongside her own.

“Let's re-evaluate an old lesson today,” the Madams says in an eerily calm voice that contrasts with her previous one. It promises both a warning and punishment. It would be a very bad idea to disappoint her now, Natalia thinks.

The woman gestures to the man’s gun on his holster at his hip.

“Disarm yourself,” she orders.

He doesn't offer any kind of reaction, and quickly starts laying his weapons on the floor. He gets rid of his bulletproof vest; the headmistress stops him when he’s only on an undershirt. The guard stands in the middle of the room, still as a statue, eyes unfocused. He's the perfect image of compliance.

Natalia has a certain idea of where all this is going.

Madam B’s gaze sweep the girls implacably. None of them flinches or make any move, in the hopes to be ignored, “how do you get information from a target?” she asks.

“You appeal to their needs,” a girl replies quickly.

“Good,” the headmistress says, “which are a woman's most usual needs?”

A different girl answers just as fast, “Emotional, comfort or comprehension.”

Madam B nods, her hands, resting on top of her cane relax, the worst of her mood is about to pass, “which are a man's most usual needs?” She asks, “Natalia?”

She doesn't waste a second replying to her, taking every opportunity to appease her, like the other girls had, “physical.”

The headmistress’ lips curl upwards, the tiniest bit of approval dampening her previous disgust, “Demonstrate.”

Again, Natalia doesn't hesitate. She doesn't want to bring any unnecessary wrath upon herself. But she can't help feeling a tinge of disappointment for the little light that had filled her chest, now vanishing. The professional part of her mind pushes the memory of his arm around her to a hidden place. She won’t associate this with him.

She steps in front of the man; her right hand finds his shoulder and her fingers trail across his collarbone as she moves to stand behind him. Her other hand finds his waist and moves down past his hip, where his gun used to be, to his thigh.

She traces his jaw with her fingers, turning his face to her, “look at me,” she tells him.

But as his eyes focus on her, her own person hides in the deepest part of her brain. Behind a wall no one can reach. And so, he doesn't know that what he's really seeing is only a mask. A shell of a girl, that's what she becomes in order to stand it.


	7. Bourrée

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Life has been crazy these last few days, so that's to blame for the long wait, sorry. Anyway, in excuse for that, I made this chapter slightly longer and kept the bad stuff to the minimun, enjoy.

_BOURRÉE / buʁe/ : Abbreviation for pas de bourrée couru. Quick, even steps, often en pointe, giving the appearance of gliding._

 

What kind of man sends a little girl to a place like the Red Room? James just can’t wrap his mind around it. To bring someone from the outside into this life, someone who could have lived perfectly safe and sound otherwise. Oblivious of the existence of this place. It’s too cruel.

And the way she had mentioned it, so calmly. As if putting her into this path had been a blessing. Like she hadn’t been robbed of the opportunity of leading a normal, civilian life. He hadn’t even known what to tell her. He looked at Natalia and he saw the after effects of what they did to her no even a week ago. She hides it well, the fear. But he’s spent enough time hiding his own not to notice the look in her eyes.

He tries to picture what she would be like if she’d never placed a foot in this place. Maybe she would smile more often. She wouldn’t be so mindful of her movements, she could be careless, free. Perhaps she would wear her hair down all the time. He can almost see her, pushing a strand behind her ear like she does when they spar.

And he hates this man, whoever he might be. The one who did this to her.

Perhaps the same happened to himself, and someone else made the choice for him. He can’t know, he doesn’t remember enough to tell. Though he doesn’t question his place in the order of things. He has a feeling he’s been in this too long to have a place anywhere else. Maybe Natalia feels the same, she didn’t say.

As far as he understands, she doesn’t know anything else but the Red Room. James isn’t sure he does either, but there’s an echo in the back of his mind. Like a distant dream. That grows bigger and clearer with each new day that passes and his mind isn’t wiped.

He remembers the chair now, and a primal fear when they tighten the straps around his arms. He remembers being cold, so cold.

But it’s all muscle memory, he can’t make sense of it on his head. He looks down at his left arm in the shower and wonders where it came from. Like the scars across his body it’s a mystery he isn’t sure he wants to resolve.

He meant what he told Natalia about his memories coming back. It can’t be good, considering where they are. Who they belong to.

The last image that came back to him haunts him. The faceless man follows him around like an augur, taunting him. It’s unsettling to say the least. Perhaps it’s all a product of his imagination, it certainly feels unreal at times.

But not her. No, she’s solid on his mind.

Back at shooting practice the day before, he had craved the contact so much, and she looked so inviting next to him, even as they lay in the snow. That he didn’t resist the impulse to put his arm around her, he couldn’t. And then she’d turned to him and they were so close. And he wanted, wanted, wanted to do something, anything. James can’t remember the last time he’s wanted something so much.

He’s still thinking about it as he steps out of the shower.

The downside of his revelries is that they make it harder to fall asleep at night. Though that’s not necessarily unpleasant. For the first time in what feels like forever, he thinks he might be starting to feel alive.

But his lack of sleep means that he has a harder time getting up in the morning. Like today; he woke up a couple minutes later and found that there were already five men in the showers. It’s not like they speak to him in any case, but whatever little privacy he can get he cherishes, and the prospect of losing it doesn’t sit well with him.

He's changing into his uniform when the door opens. An agent comes in and joins another man who’s sitting on a bench, drying his hair with a towel, “you are one lucky bastard,” one of them says in a hushed tone. Gossiping is strictly forbidden, not that anybody has told him, but one look at the handlers during lunch is enough to tell.

“Gotta get lucky once,” replies the other in a whisper, clearly pleased. James turns away, his enhanced hearing is the only reason he’s eaves dropping, he couldn’t care less.

Opposite to him there’s another man. James knows that one from his private sessions, they’re often paired for sparring. And though the man hasn’t beaten him -not that anyone has -he’s got to admit he’s good, above average good. But that’s not the reason he recalls his face. No, what really caught his attention about him, is that he seems to be directly under General Karpov’s command, just like himself.

And right now, this man seems to be paying close attention to the conversation between the other two. Not that either of them notices.

“Which one was it?” one of them asks. James starts tying his boots, he’s eager to leave them to their chattering, he wants no part on it.

But before he stands from the bench, he hears the other reply with superiority, “the redhead.”

James stills, he wonders if he heard wrong, but that’s obviously not the case. Out of the corner of his eye he notices the man opposite has turned as well. It takes only one look at the lewd expression on the others’ faces for their whispers to make sense. A sick feeling invades his stomach.

“Lucky bastard,” he hears one mutter, “did it go far?”

_Time to leave_ , James thinks, gathering his things. He doesn’t want to hear it, he doesn’t want to imagine it. He won’t judge her, he can’t. She’s been trained to obey not to choose. But still, he doesn’t want the mental image on his head.

He’s glad to go running in the snow until he can think of something else. Let the cold air enter his body and quiet the turmoil. There’s too much in his head, too many memories in a place that’s used to hold none. He wants to push himself to move as fast as he can be, outrun everything and everyone. But the man who oversees them orders him to keep the pace of the other agents.

He must not be hiding his frustration very well. Out of the corner of his eye he sees the General watching them from the courtyard's entrance, he curses internally, feeling a twinge of fear the prospect of punishment.

Karpov waits for them to finish their laps before approaching. James concentrates on hollowing his gaze, be the machine they expect him to be. But by the time he sees his handler’s steps coming in his direction he knows he’s failed.

“Is there a problem soldier?” Karpov asks him directly. On a second thought it occurs to him that this is the first time the man has ever asked him something.

James looks ahead, “No, sir.”

The General watches him for a long moment, his breath forming clouds around his nose in the cold. He seems oblivious of the temperature, wrapped as he is in a thick coat made of some kind of fur.

James feels like a fool for not to being cagier of Karpov's attention before. After all, the man is entirely capable of ordering his brain to be wiped again. The sudden memory of electric current rattling inside his head threatens to send a shiver down his spine. And he suppresses it as best as he can under his handler’s attentive gaze.

The General doesn't give any indication of whether or not he has passes this improvised test, and his voice doesn't betray anything when he speaks, “back inside, I have an assignment for you.”

 

* * *

 

Apparently, his return to consciousness didn’t go unnoticed by his superiors as James believed. If he wasn’t sure before, it became painfully clear the moment his handler took a little red book from his coat. Unlike most things, he recognized it immediately. As if the image of it was burned in his mind. He felt an instinctive revulsion towards it.

They hadn't used the conditioning on him since he woke up, at least as far as he can remember, perhaps Karpov didn't think it was necessary. In any case, he does now.

Each word the General reads feels like a nail buried in his brain. And when the deed is done, James becomes a guest in his own head. Able to watch, listen and feel, but incapable of regaining control of his body. He becomes incapable of resisting orders.

And so, he does what he’s told, pulling triggers and beating the information out of a man’s lips. The feeling of bone crushing under his metal fingers is permanently etched in his mind. He doesn't know how it works, or why it does. Honestly, he isn't sure he wants to know.

And now, with the effect of the conditioning only just vanishing, he’s prey to the lingering nausea the whole process leaves in its wake. He doesn't feel strong enough to crawl to the showers, so he ends up in his room.

Natalia is there when he opens the door. She's sitting on his bed, her lovely face showing a bit of surprise at the sight of him.

James looks down at himself, he's still wearing the uniform, thick and suffocating, even in this cold. And the mask, which feels more like a muzzle. His exhaustion gives way to embarrassment when he realizes she's never seen him this low before.

Yet when she speaks, despite her words, her tone doesn't carry any of the disgust he thinks he might inspire, “You don't look so good,” she says quietly.

He doesn't reply. Just closes the door behind himself, leaning on it for a moment.

It's she who stands and approaches him, silent as a cat, as always, “what happened?” She asks, eyes searching his form. Maybe if he didn't feel so sick, he'd be embarrassed, but he lacks the energy for even that.

“I brought you some things,” she continues when he doesn’t reply. She pulls two bandage rolls from her pocket and holds them up for him to see, plus a couple pain killer blisters. He wants to ask if she stole those things from the infirmary, but he doesn’t need to inquire, _of course she did._

“May I?” Natalia gestures to his arm, there's some angry cuts just below his wrist, from when the target tried to knife him to escape his hold. He nods, torn between the unpleasant after effect that turns his guts, and the quiet longing he feels at the prospect of her contact.

She doesn’t reach for his arm at once, instead her fingers find his shoulder and light as feathers, starts searching for a way to unstrap his vest. They follow the seams down to his ribs, until she finds the hidden zipper that keeps it closed. He shouldn’t be surprised, she couldn’t properly reach his arm without removing the sleeve, and the material’s too thick to be pushed up.

Still, he was unaware. She pulls down the zipper and carefully, but efficiently she starts undoing the straps that hold the vest together. He stands still, watching her every move.

Her hands move down to his stomach releasing a last couple buttons on his side, and finally it hangs open. She stands on her toes to ease his flesh arm out of the sleeve without having the fabric rub against the wound too roughly. He’s too startled to be of much help.

When he’s finally out of it, she pushes it off his shoulders and lets it slip to the floor. It makes a muted sound when it lands. Coming down her fingers brush his bare skin, over the scars that bound his metal arm, he suppresses a shiver.

Natalia looks up, green eyes holding his. Her hair is loose around her face, and her bangs touches her lashes when she blinks. _Do lashes really grow that long on their own?_ He wonders. Slowly, she reaches up to his jaw, but instead of skin, her fingers find the mask he didn’t even remember he had on. She takes it off carefully and lets it fall besides the forgotten vest.

“That's better,” she tells him, as he looks at her bewildered.

She turns to the window while he sits on the bed, either parts enthralled and disoriented. He almost doesn't notice when she opens it, and later comes back and presses a cold something against his cheekbone. It aches, must be bruised, he hadn't realized. The cold comes from a handful of snow she wrapped in a piece of cloth.

With his metal hand, he holds the bundle to his face. While he watches her sit down to clean the cuts on his arm. She's silent as she wraps the bandage around it. Like the last time, she tucks the end, so it doesn't unroll. It brings his mind back to her stealing things from the medical wing.

“You shouldn’t have taken anything,” he tells her. It’s the first time he speaks in a while, and his voice comes out a little rough, “it’s too easy to get caught.”

Natalia shrugs, “I’m good at sneaking around,” she replies, like she wasn't risking a good beating for breaking the rules.

“Why do you do it?” He asks without thinking. Wondering if she lacked the common sense before she met him, or if it’s something he inspires.

Natalia looks at him, “because I want to” she answers, unapologetic as always though not yet bordering on arrogance, “And you’ve done it for me before, remember?”

She means when he helped her on the changing room. They were lucky not to be discovered, there’s no doubt in his mind that even touching her in any unprofessional way would equal a particularly nasty kind of punishment. He looks down, thinking. And finds himself a bit dismayed to notice that as the nausea fades, the longing he feels becomes harder to ignore.

Natalia eyes the frown on his face warily, “you haven’t patronized me before, don’t insult me now James,” she tells him, “I can take care of myself.”

“I know,” he sighs, and she examines his face until she seems sure he’s telling the truth.

“So, what happened to you?” she asks, gesturing to his removed vest on the floor.

He clears his throat to get rid of the hoarseness on his voice, “I had an assignment,” he replies. Looking at her, he notices there’s a spark of curiosity in her eyes. Though she remains silent, waiting for him to continue, yet despite that, something tells him that she would respect it if he chose not to _. But when in Rome…_ “sometimes when the mission’s complicated they do something, to make sure I follow the orders.”

James’ not sure he’s making sense, and her expression doesn’t betray her thoughts. But he thinks -and it might only be a feeling -that she understands.

“Does it make it easier?” She asks.

 “Sometimes,” he shrugs.

Natalia nods thoughtfully, “not today,” she guesses correctly.

His eyes land on her hands, resting on her lap, as they keep quiet for a few minutes. Despite the topic, he enjoys her company, it chases the worst of his ghost away. He thinks -and hopes -that it’s the same for her, so that’s why she comes to him, “I wish,” he begins, and it strikes him as funny, because weapons shouldn’t wish or hope, but he continues on anyway, “I wish I didn’t felt like me doing it. But the things we do under orders, it’s still us who do them, isn’t it? It’s still our bodies.”

Natalia watches him silently, he doesn’t think he’s ever said so many words to her. And she’s the only one he talks to. But her fingers twitch and it takes him a minute to recall the conversation he heard by chance in the morning.

He immediately tries to take it back, “I don’t -I mean, not that there is a choice –

Her shoulders drop, “you heard,” she says, “about yesterday.” There’s disappointment in her voice and the tiniest twinge on embarrassment. It contrasts heavily with her usual poise and seems to frustrate her, because she tries to shrug it off, “the headmistress says it’s good practice. A nice skill to have, that’s all,” she says, but he can tell she’s not one hundred percent convinced.

He doesn't know what to say. He knows what she is, or what she’ll become, once her training’s complete. It's only logic that they would teach her to use her sexuality as a weapon. Yet the thought of what that entails feels like a rock in his stomach.

“You don’t approve,” she guesses, watching him frown, “I promise James, I’m not trying to get in your pants,” he turns back to her at that, and she smiles at his scandalized look, “though I think you’ve already decided I’m not particularly reliable.”

She misunderstood him, but how does he tell her that it’s the image of her with another man that he hates, and not the possibility that she’ll try to seduce him? He looks down at his bandaged arm, recalling how carefully she made sure the cuts wouldn’t leave much of a scar behind.

“I do trust you,” he admits, “I know you haven’t lied to me.”

“How are you sure?” She asks, amused.

He feels the rare pull of a smile on the corner of his lips and gives her the sort of answer he knows she would usually give him, “I just do.”

“Huh,” Natalia replies, and he's glad to see the ill-fitting discomfort has vanished from her. She throws him smile, and though it isn’t as brilliant as the other ones she has, it looks more genuine on her lips, “maybe I should start re-evaluating my deception techniques if I'm so easy to tell.”

He runs a hand through his hair, trying to mask the fact that he’s given in to the pull of a smile as well. But she will not be fooled, and her eyes meet his despite his evasion. It feels weird on his face, like muscles that haven’t been used in way too long.

“There,” Natalia says, pleased, “a grin to go with your sense of humour,” she is teasing him, he knows, but he can’t bring himself to care.


	8. En Face

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am truly so sorry for the long wait, but you'll see, I have a shit-ton of work to do and I've find it particularly hard to find time to write and then to edit these days. Hopefully, it'll get better in a week or so. In the meantime, tell me if there's something especific you'd like to see, I'm all ears.

_EN FACE / ɑ̃ fas/ : A common ballet position, it indicates facing something directly, generally the audience._

 

She spits blood. A single red stain among the perfect whiteness of the snow that covers the ground. Natalia's cheek aches where she bit it. Her nails dig in her palms, and her jaw is set. It isn’t the pain that bothers her, pain’s fleeting. It’s her incompetence. She should have dodged the blow, it's not that hard.

As she falls back into a fighting stance, she and her opponent circle each other. Yelena watches her with disdain, some arrogance in her posture. Natalia's lips become a thin line.

She charges before Yelena can become too comfortable. Her foot collides with the girl's stomach, causing her to gasp, and she uses the distraction to land a blow to her throat. The girl falls, one knee on the floor, one up.

The weight of eyes on them is suffocating. Everyone's watching today. The Red Room’s version of a showcase. All the best recruits, out on the snow for a demonstration.

Yelena stands right back, aiming a punch for her cheekbone. Natalia ducks, sweeping a leg under the girl, but the girl avoids it, taking the opportunity to send a kick up to her chin right after.

Natalia blocks it with her forearm, punching the girl's stomach again. The look Yelena sends her is beyond dirty. Before she regains her strength, Natalia uses her momentum to push herself up. Wrapping both legs, one after the other, around the girl's neck.

She uses their combined weight to bring them down, with Yelena’s shoulder hitting the ground first. Natalia immobilizes her, tightening her grip until the blonde is forced to slam her hand down, surrendering.

She releases her, getting back on her feet in one fluid movement.

Out of the corner of her eye she sees James looking at her from his place behind General Karpov. His face is solemn but for the microscopic narrowing of his eyes, that hints at amusement.

He helped her master the takedown not even two days ago. Showed her exactly where to concentrate her strength, how to get atop him even though he's a head taller, and way broader. Their private sessions have become quite enjoyable, she thinks. The mischievous look in his eye has come to invade his whole face and he smiles sometimes. Well, more like he smirks, since these grins don’t hold anything of the shyness the first smile he gave her had. What a difference a week can make.

They've been working on knives as well. For hours. Until the blade stopped feeling like a tool and became a part of her. She has an especially fond memory of that.

“Gimme your hand,” James had said. And she did, without a guess. He took it on his, and without turning from her, he guided her fingers up his back, “There's a spot near the spine,” he told her, pressing two of her fingers in a soft place between his bones, “where if you stab someone, you can reach both lungs and heart.”

Her hand lingered, searching the tender spot he mentioned, feeling the warmth of his skin slipping through his undershirt.

“It's an instant kill,” James explained. His grip on her loosening a bit, but not completely.

“Really?” She asked.

“Really,” He assured her. She decided to take a chance, and with her index she drew a slow circle in the place. She felt him lean a bit, on her touch. It was so subtle, she didn't think he noticed himself.

“What about…?” Natalia wondered, barely tracing a line from the spot up to his spine.

He was silent for a few seconds, almost making her think she had overstepped, “permanent loss of movement,” his voice sounded deeper, “if you hit their spine.”

She felt herself smiling, “any other places?” The cautious glint in his eye melted into something else.

“A spot in the neck,” he said quietly. His eyes were trained on her even as her hand moved up. Three of her fingers brushed his pulse, under his jaw. James swallowed.

“Fatal loss of blood,” she called. He nodded, and her hand started to relax. Until her touch became a caress.

And there it was, that look in his eye, she didn't have the right word for it yet. It wasn't hunger. Certainly not the way the man from her lesson had looked at her. Though she was a bit… reluctant to admit it, it made her feel warm.

She let her fingers slide down, making a line on his neck as they came to rest on his collarbone. _I’m not trying to get in your pants,_ she had promised, and meant it at the time. But with every training session or late-night conversation they had, Natalia became more and more unsure about the truth of her statement.

Sometimes he would look up at her when they passed each other on the hallways. And she would see the hint of an unspoken greeting in the way his eyes crinkled at the corners. Or he would praise her at combat practice with only a look, or a nod. That kind of wordless communication threatened to convince her that this yearning wasn’t entirely one-sided.

Natalia would be fooling herself if she said she didn't enjoy it. Having someone with whom she can share a bit of herself. Who takes her mind away from this endless line of days that merge into each other. She is grateful to the Red Room for all they've done for her, there's no question. But she wouldn't give this up, even for them, she won't.

She wants her promise to be true though, she’s not looking to take advantage of her training to seduce him. But that one-sided grin he sends her when they're alone makes her think he wouldn't really mind anymore. Yet she wants to know for sure before she does anything that might upset him. She doesn't need a verbal answer, the way he leans into her might be enough.

But the moment ends abruptly, with only the sound of steps outside the door sending them away from each other in a second. Which makes this showcase of sorts the first time she’s seen him in two days.

“Very good,” she hears Madam B say, the woman’s voice bringing her back to the present. Natalia straightens her posture at the headmistress approval. Opposite to herself Yelena’s face is devoid of emotion, but her hands hang as fists on her sides.

For once, she doesn't feel pride at having beaten her. There are too many eyes on them today, and Natalia knows that if she had lost, the humiliation would hang heavy on her stomach. The thought makes her feel slightly uncomfortable as the headmistress approaches her and places a hand on her shoulder. Or perhaps that's just foreboding. She doesn't remember ever receiving such a gesture.

There's a brief silence during which Natalia notices the Madam looking past her, at General Karpov. The man’s pondering gaze rests on her, “very good indeed,” he repeats thoughtfully.

“Let us try a different opponent,” the headmistress offers, arching a brow at the general, “perhaps one of yours?”

Natalia, who hasn't taken her attention from the man watches him nod. And she knows this is not a demonstration anymore. By the unsurprised look on Karpov’s face she guesses the Madam must have discussed this with him. She doesn't know what to make of it, is this meant to be a test? _It must be._

The General turns to the men behind him. She thinks she knows who he'll pick, but it isn't James he calls, “Alexei,” he names instead and comrade Shostakov steps forwards.

He looks surprised, but pleased, like he's decided it's good fortune. Natalia examines him with a clinical eye. He's bigger than her, but so is almost everybody. He probably concentrates his strength on his upper body, judging by his arms. And he looks sure, easy to deceive then.

“When you're ready,” the headmistress calls, stepping back.

He lunges at Natalia first, taking the upper hand. She makes sure she only avoids him by a couple inches. He throws a couple blows at her and she responds in equal. He's faster than she imagined, enough to become a challenge but too proud for her taste.

For a moment, she’s happy to escape his grasp do the bare minimum while she plans. But then he lands a kick on her ribs and Natalia falls. He's on her immediately, working to restrain her, a satisfied look in his eyes. She waits until he's close, too close and too distracted, trying not to look like he's enjoying himself. It’s when his face is only a breath away that she kicks him off her, sending her knee against his side as hard as possible.

He clutches his side, and she doesn't waste a moment pining his arm behind his back. She’s rough enough to make sure he knows she could dislocate it, but not sufficient to actually do it. He grunts in pain and slams a hand on the ground.

Natalia looks up at the General. His hand brushes his chin thoughtfully, and gestures for two more men to join them.

The next four rounds are a testament to her ability to concentrate and her training, both as an operative and as a dancer. Each time she brings them down, one by one, without ever abandoning the grace that distinguishes her from a common agent. By the end, when the General orders them to stop, there’s a drop of sweat on her temple, despite the cold. Her body aches, bruises probably blossoming under her uniform. And yet she could still bow and exit the courtyard like a ballerina.

“Very well,” Karpov gives her a curt nod, finally looking satisfied, “I guess you and I should have a little chat, Romanova.”

“Yes, sir,” she replies, and joins the other girls at the headmistress’ command.

“I’ll send her to you,” the woman says, leading the girls back inside.

Before turning, Natalia steals another look at James. But his attention is trained on the General’s back, and his face has become unreadable again.

 

* * *

 

General Karpov’s workplace is exactly what a Russian officer’s must be. Spartan, devoid of any decorations or unnecessary ornaments that might distract someone from their job. His desk doesn’t hold any pictures, and the only personal objects in sight are three silver pens he keeps meticulously aligned on his desk. _It’s fitting,_ she thinks, for a man such as him to be married only to the motherland’s ideals. That's probably what's expected of all their agents, including herself.

In the time she’s been waiting for the General to make his appearance, she’s had time to think, and glean whatever little information she can get from the man’s office. But only from view. She’s remained still, with her back perfectly straight against the back of one functional chair. She’s not naive enough not to know she’s being watched.

And even then, at least another twenty minutes go by before the General appears at the entrance.

“Romanova,” he greets her, closing the door behind himself. She stands in a sign of respect, like his soldiers probably do.

Gossiping isn't allowed in the Red Room, but she's heard a thing or two about Karpov. Besides, she's pretty sure he's James’ handler, though they haven't talked about it. But it gives her an idea of what exactly this sort of man likes to do with his free time, when he isn’t wiping someone’s brain clean. Nothing particularly pleasant for sure.

“I met your guardian a couple months ago,” he tells her casually, an offering. He must know none of the girls get any information from the outside, “comrade Petrovich.”

Natalia nods politely, curling her lips only slightly, in a smile, “how is he?” she asks, giving in to what he expects from her.

General Karpov slides off his coat and hangs it on the back of his chair before sitting so they are face to face, “he looked quite well,” he replies, deviously cheerful, “I’m sure he's very proud of you,” he comments, reaching out to straighten one of his pens, “top recruit of the program, according to the headmistress.”

She doesn’t take her eyes from him, even for a second.

When he’s finished with the pen, he looks up at her again, the same curious expression on his face, “I wonder though,” he smiles, “what sort of man offers his own protégé to Department X?”

Natalia meets his gaze, there’s something cruel about the way his eyes narrow at the corners.

She won't play coy with him. He doesn't seem like the kind who has time for decorations, or enjoys them in the least, “A patriot,” she replies, and watches him lean back on his chair.

“A patriot,” he agrees. Then he remains silent for a moment, thoughtful almost, “a good and loyal Russian, don’t you think?” he declares.

She smiles fondly, “certainly.” Karpov considers her for a moment, during which both remain silent.

“And are you?” He asks seriously, “good and loyal?”

“Yes,” she meets his eyes again, unashamed, “as you have raised me to be.”

“I have heard a lot about you, Natalia Romanova, during these past weeks,” he says, finally dropping the false grin, “the headmistress believes you have potential, so I authorized you to train with the Winter Soldier,” she blinks, unsurprised, “I think it has come to fruition, seeing your skill this morning.”

“Thank you, sir,” she replies accordingly. Despite his austere appearance, she notices there’s a gold ring on his hand, engraved with an intricate design around a single jewel. His index finger, brushes over it a couple times while he speaks.

“I wasn’t convinced at first, but you are an asset, Romanova, the fruit of our hard work,” he tells her, “brutally efficient, and yet still lovely as a petal,” he tells her, though it isn’t a compliment but a fact, “yes, you will serve the motherland wonderfully.”

 

* * *

 

There have been a few times while she's dancing, that it becomes easy to forget she’s human. It doesn’t have anything to do with her training or the enhancements that have been made to her body. It’s just a feeling. She could be bleeding right through her pointe shoes and wouldn’t notice.

This isn’t one of those times. Natalia can feel every bruise she earned this morning. But instead of making it more difficult, those injuries seem to be spurring her on.

Before Karpov dismissed her, he apologized for depriving her from her tutor for the day and explained that he had sent the Soldier on an assignment off base. There was complacence in his voice, the kind he always showed when he spoke of him. He was obviously proud of his asset, but to her it sounded more like was referring to a toy or a tool than an actual soldier.

She wasn't thrilled to hear it but didn't complain. Truth is, she would have liked to do some shooting practice with James outside, away from prying eyes. But if those were his orders, then there was nothing she could do about it.

So, she grabbed her pointe shoes and decided to spend those hours practicing something else.

Being alone means she has all the mirrors and space for herself, but that also that there's no pianist, so she must imagine the music. Though that's alright, she knows it. The prelude from Les Sylphides is relatively soft, but she likes it. The movements are very slow, making it easy for her to focus and enjoy them while putting technique aside. There's an artistry to it that other variations lack.

Natalia closes her eyes for a moment, and the sensation she’s been looking for arrives. Her toes and her arms ache from being taunt, but the pain steps into the background. Now she can pretend the strength of her muscles is the result of years of dancing. And not earned from constant fighting.

How does one _feel?_ When one's never had to worry about failure? Or a beating? When she first started her training, the beatings were periodic. Learning to endure pain without showing it is crucial for any agent. At one point she even remembers offering her wrist for them to break without as much as a flinch.

It's a performance, not unlike dancing. Like the first time she took off her clothes before a stranger, when she was fifteen. There's nothing personal about it. She can be whatever they need her to be, like a tool.

Perhaps that's why she liked James in the first place. He's the same as her, but unlike her and the other girls, he doesn't pretend it's good. For him this life just is, he doesn't say it's alright. She respects him for that.

Natalia continues to dance, watching her reflexion in the mirror. How would it feel? To have someone's affection? Not the kind you exploit, but the kind you cherish. To have someone look at you like you're worth something. She wonders, raising her arms in a gentle curve. Perhaps if he could look at her now… Perhaps she would know.

_Oh_. It's a wound in her chest, the yearning. It makes her lose her balance for a moment, and she drops her arms at her sides, frustrated.

“Sloppy,” she hears from the door. Natalia turns to the Madam standing there, feeling instantly disappointed at herself. How long was she watching before she noticed her presence? “Sylphides is too subdued, it doesn’t suit you.”

A pang of childish disappointment overwhelms her. How pathetic can she be? To have believed a handful of pretty movements would transform whatever it is from herself that she can’t seem to stand nowadays.

“Yes, Madam,” Natalia replies, changing to a piece from Gisselle, more challenging and concise.

The headmistress watches her, correcting minor flaws. Urging her on at times while she continues at a practiced pace, “much better,” she nods, “again.”

Natalia complies, repeating the same set of steps over and over for the woman to watch. Eventually, when the burn of her muscles becomes too strong, she goes to the barre, to practice pliés while she rests her feet, which ache inside her pointe shoes. She gets a strange sense of _deja vu_ when Madam B places her hand on her shoulder.

“I have a surprise for you,” she announces, at which Natalia looks up, there’s a curious glint in the woman’s eyes, “you have worked hard, and shown initiative,” she continues, “it hasn't gone unnoticed.”

Natalia's hands leave the barre and come to rest at her sides. Something about the phrasing feels premonitory. Apart from the fact that she’s never heard anything as remotely encouraging come from the Madam’s lips before.

“You have been granted an opportunity,” the headmistress tells her, “a real assignment, outside the Red Room,” she clarifies, and continues without waiting for her to reply, “it is simple. You will be given a target and a cover. If you succeed to eliminate it in the given time, you will have earned the rank of Black Widow and the graduation process will begin.”

Despite the usual poise she uses to hide her emotions, Natalia's eyes go huge as she turns back to the Madam. The woman steps back and returns her gaze, pleased. _This is it_ , all she's worked for. Every tear shed and broken bone, every bruise. The reward is right here for the taking.

“It's an honour,” she half whispers.

Madam B smiles, “Indeed,” she agrees, “I think comrade Karpov was very pleased with you.”

_Of course,_ now this morning’s little demonstration makes sense. And the chat. Though she still has doubts about what kind of impression the General has of her, she wouldn’t disagree. Natalia doesn’t think she would be offered such an opportunity if he didn’t approve.

“Congratulations,” the headmistress commends, and it’s perhaps the unusual praise, or the sheer impossibility of the opportunity, that makes Natalia forget herself for a moment.

“How long until-?” she asks eagerly.

“A week,” Madam B responds, crossing her hands primly behind her back, “you’ll learn all the details in a couple days, maybe…” the headmistress tilts her head, looking at her. She reaches out, pushing a loose piece of hair from her face, “we could do something with this,” she gestures to her ballet garb, “it would be a shame to waste such potential.”

A dangerous thought strikes Natalia, something she hadn’t considered before amidst the surprise. “Madam?”

“Yes?”

“What would happen if I…?” even the possibility seems to scary for her to fully pronounce her question.

Madam B arches a brow at her, “What happens if you fail?” she asks, no compassion colouring her voice. Natalia nods, “Department X can’t allow failure,” she replies naturally, “measures will be taken in case something goes wrong, I expect comrade Karpov will send the Soldier as well, to supervise you.”

_And to finish the task should you fail,_ Natalia knows, though it isn’t said. She turns back to her reflection in the mirror and the headmistress steps behind her. Everything she’s wanted seems to near suddenly, and despite her excitement something inside her reels at the thought.

“Headmistress?” she wonders, feeling her stomach drop, not unlike the last time she stood outside the Red Room’s door, “what does the graduation process entail?”

The woman smiles over her shoulder, “so many questions,” she reprimands her, ignoring the last one. She pats her on the shoulder a couple times, “you should change, it’s almost dinner time.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you liked it, also, thank you for the very lovely comments guys! It always makes my day to hear what you think.


End file.
